THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

CERF  LIBRARY 

PRESENTED  BY 

REBECCA  CERF  *02 

IN  THE  NAMES  OF 

CHARLOTTE  CERF  '95 

MARCEL  E.  CERF '97 

BARRY  CERF  '02 


THE   SIEGE   OF   LONDON, 

THE  PENSION  BEAUKEPAS, 


AND 


THE   POINT  OF  VIEW. 


BY 


HENRY   JAMES,  JR. 

AUTHOR  OF  "DAISY  MILLER,"   "THE  AMERICAN,' 
"THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY,"  ETC. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY. 

1883. 


Copyright, 

1879,  BY  HOUGHTON,  OscooD,  &  Co. ; 
1882,  BY  THE  CENTURY  COMPANY  AND  H.  JAMES,  JB. 


Ml  rights  reserved. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  : 
JOHH  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


& 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON  .  ....        3 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS 139 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 223 


M 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 


THE   SIEGE   OF   LONDON. 


PART   I. 


THAT  solemn  piece  of  upholstery,  the  curtain  of 
the  Comedie  Franchise,  had  fallen  upon  the  first  act 
of  the  piece,  and  our  two  Americans  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  interval  to  pass  out  of  the  huge,  hot 
theatre,  in  company  with  the  other  occupants  of  the 
stalls.  But  they  were  among  the  first  to  return,  and 
they  beguiled  the  rest  of  the  intermission  with  look- 
ing at  the  house,  which  had  lately  been  cleansed  of 
its  historic  cobwebs  and  ornamented  with,  frescos 
illustrative  of  the  classic  drama.  In  the  month  of 
September  the  audience  at  the  Theatre  Franqais  is 
comparatively  thin,  and  on  this  occasion  the  drama  — 
L'Aventuriere  of  Emile  Augier  —  had  no  pretensions 
to  novelty.  Many  of  the  boxes  were  empty,  others 
were  occupied  by  persons  of  provincial  or  nomadic 
appearance.  The  boxes  are  far  from  the  stage,  near 
which  our  spectators  were  placed;  but  even  at  a 
distance  Rupert  Waterville  was  able  to  appreciate 
certain  details.  He  was  fond  of  appreciating  details, 

Copyright,  1882,  by  Henry  James,  Jr. 


4  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

and  when  he  went  to  the  theatre  he  looked  about  him 
a  good  deal,  making  use  of  a  dainty  but  remarkably 
powerful  glass.  He  knew  that  such  a  course  was 
wanting  in  true  distinction,  and  that  it  was  indelicate 
to  level  at  a  lady  an  instrument  which  was  often  only 
less  injurious  in  effect  than  a  double-barrelled  pistol ; 
but  he  was  always  very  curious,  and  he  was  sure,  in 
any  case,  that  at  that  moment,  at  that  antiquated 
play  —  so  he  was  pleased  to  qualify  the  masterpiece 
of  an  Academician — he  would  not  be  observed  by 
any  one  he  knew.  Standing  up  therefore  with  his 
back  to  the  stage,  he  made  the  circuit  of  the  boxes, 
while  several  other  persons,  near  him,  performed  the 
same  operation  with  even  greater  coolness. 

"Not  a  single  pretty  woman,"  he  remarked  at  last 
to  his  friend ;  an  observation  which  Littlemore,  sit- 
ting in  his  place  and  staring  with  a  bored  expression 
at  the  new-looking  curtain,  received  in  perfect  silence. 
He  rarely  indulged  in  these  optical  excursions;  he 
had  been  a  great  deal  in  Paris  and  had  ceased  to  care 
about  it,  or  wonder  about  it,  much ;  he  fancied  that 
the  French  capital  could  have  no  more  surprises  for 
him,  though  it  had  had  a  good  many  in  former  days. 
Waterville  was  still  in  the  stage  of  surprise ;  he  sud- 
denly expressed  this  emotion.  "  By  Jove  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  I  beg  your  pardon —  I  beg  her  pardon  — 
there  is,  after  all,  a  woman  that  may  be  called" — he 
paused  a  little,  inspecting  her — "a  kind  of  beauty! " 

"  What  kind  ? "  Littlemore  asked,  vaguely. 

"  An  unusual  kind  —  an  indescribable  kind."     Lit- 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  5 

tlemore  was  not  heeding  his  answer,  but  he  presently 
heard  himself  appealed  to.  "I  say,  I  wish  very 
much  you  would  do  me  a  favor." 

"I  did  you  a  favor  in  coming  here,"  said  Little- 
more.  "  It 's  insufferably  hot,  and  the  play  is  like  a 
dinner  that  has  been  dressed  by  the  kitchen-maid. 
The  actors  are  all  doublures" 

"It's  simply  to  answer  me  this  :  is  she  respectable, 
now? "  Waterville  rejoined,  inattentive  to  his  friend's 
epigram. 

Littlemore  gave  a  groan,  without  turning  his  head. 
"  You  are  always  wanting  to  know  if  they  are  respect- 
able. What  on  earth  can  it  matter  ? " 

"  I  have  made  such  mistakes  —  I  have  lost  all  con- 
fidence," said  poor  "Waterville,  to  whom  European 
civilization  had  not  ceased  to  be  a  novelty,  and  who 
during  the  last  six  months  had  found  himself  con- 
fronted with  problems  long  unsuspected.  Whenever 
he  encountered  a  very  nice-looking  woman,  he  was 
sure  to  discover  that  she  belonged  to  the  class  rep- 
resented by  the  heroine  of  M.  Augier's  drama ;  and 
whenever  his  attention  rested  upon  a  person  of  a 
florid  style  of  attraction,  there  was  the  strongest  prob- 
ability that  she  would  turn  out  to  be  a  countess. 
The  countesses  looked  so  superficial  and  the  others 
looked  so  exclusive.  Now  Littlemore  distinguished 
at  a  glance  ;  he  never  made  mistakes. 

"  Simply  for  looking  at  them,  it  does  n't  matter,  I 
suppose,"  said  Waterville,  ingenuously,  answering  his 
companion's  rather  cynical  inquiry. 


6  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  You  stare  at  them  all  alike,"  Littlemore  went  on, 
still  without  moving;  "except  indeed  when  I  tell 
you  that  they  are  not  respectable  —  then  your  atten- 
tion acquires  a  fixedness ! " 

"  If  your  judgment  is  against  this  lady,  I  promise 
never  to  look  at  her  again.  I  mean  the  one  in  the 
third  box  from  the  passage,  in  white,  with  the  red 
flowers/'  he  added,  as  Littlemore  slowly  rose  and  stood 
beside  him.  "The  young  man  is  leaning  forward. 
It  is  the  young  man  that  makes  me  doubt  of  her. 
Will  you  have  the  glass  ? " 

Littlemore  looked  about  him  without  concentra- 
tion. "  No,  I  thank  you,  my  eyes  are  good  enough. 
The  young  man 's  a  very  good  young  man,"  he  added 
in  a  moment. 

"  Very  indeed ;  but  he 's  several  years  younger 
than  she.  Wait  till  she  turns  her  head." 

She  turned  it  very  soon  —  she  apparently  had  been 
speaking  to  the  ouvreuse,  at  the  door  of  the  box  —  and 
presented  her  face  to  the  public  —  a  fair,  well-drawn 
face,  with  smiling  eyes,  smiling  lips,  ornamented 
over  the  brow  with  delicate  rings  of  black  hair  and, 
in  each  ear,  with  the  sparkle  of  a  diamond  sufficiently 
large  to  be  seen  across  the  Theatre  FranQais.  Little- 
more  looked  at  her ;  then,  abruptly,  he  gave  an  ex- 
clamation. "  Give  me  the  glass  ! " 

"  Do  you  know  her  ? "  his  companion  asked,  as  he 
directed  the  little  instrument. 

Littlemore  made  no  answer ;  he  only  looked  in  si- 
lence ;  then  he  handed  back  the  glass.  "  No,  she 's 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  7 

not  respectable,"  he  said.  And  he  dropped  into  his 
seat  again.  As  Waterville  remained  standing,  he 
added,  "  Please  sit  down ;  I  think  she  saw  me." 

"  Don't  you  want  her  to  see  you  ?  "  asked  Water- 
ville the  interrogator,  taking  his  seat. 

Littlemore  hesitated.  "  I  don't  want  to  spoil  her 
game."  By  this  time  the  entr'acte  was  at  an  end; 
the  curtain  rose  again. 

It  had  been  Waterville's  idea  that  they  should  go 
to  the  theatre.  Littlemore,  who  was  always  for  not 
doing  a  thing,  had  recommended  that,  the  evening 
being  lovely,  they  should  simply  sit  and  smoke  at  the 
door  of  the  Grand  Cafe,  in  a  decent  part  of  the  Bou- 
levard. Nevertheless  Eupert  Waterville  enjoyed  the 
second  act  even  less  than  he  had  done  the  first,  which 
he  thought  heavy.  He  began  to  wonder  whether  his 
companion  would  wish  to  stay  to  the  end ;  a  useless 
line  of  speculation,  for  now  that  he  had  got  to  the 
theatre,  Littlemore's  objection  to  doing  things  would 
certainly  keep  him  from  going.  Waterville  also 
wondered  what  he  knew  about  the  lady  in  the  box. 
Once  or  twice  he  glanced  at  his  friend,  and  then  he 
saw  that  Littlemore  was  not  following  the  play.  He 
was  thinking  of  something  else ;  he  was  thinking  of 
that  woman.  When  the  curtain  fell  again  he  sat  in 
his  place,  making  way  for  his  neighbors,  as  usual, 
to  edge  past  him,  grinding  his  knees  —  his  legs  were 
long  —  with  their  own  protuberances.  When  the 
two  men  were  alone  in  the  stalls,  Littlemore  said : 
"  I  think  I  should  like  to  see  her  again,  after  all." 


8  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

He  spoke  as  if  Waterville  might  have  known  all 
about  her.  Waterville  was  conscious  of  not  doing  so, 
but  as  there  was  evidently  a  good  deal  to  know,  he 
felt  that  he  should  lose  nothing  by  being  a  little  dis- 
creet. So,  for  the  moment,  he  asked  no  questions ; 
he  only  said  — 

"  Well,  here 's  the  glass." 

Littlemore  gave  him  a  glance  of  good-natured  com- 
passion. "  I  don't  mean  that  I  want  to  stare  at  her 
with  that  beastly  thing.  I  mean  —  to  see  her — as  I 
used  to  see  her." 

"  How  did  you  use  to  see  her  ? "  asked  Waterville, 
bidding  farewell  to  discretion. 

"  On  the  back  piazza,  at  San  Diego."  And  as  his 
interlocutor,  in  receipt  of  this  information,  only  stared, 
he  went  on  —  "  Come  out  where  we  can  breathe,  and 
1 11  tell  you  more." 

They  made  their  way  to  the  low  and  narrow  door, 
more  worthy  of  a  rabbit-hutch  than  of  a  great  theatre, 
by  which  you  pass  from  the  stalls  of  the  Comedie  to 
the  lobby,  and  as  Littlemore  went  first,  his  ingenuous 
friend,  behind  him,  could  see  that  he  glanced  up  at 
the  box  in  the  occupants  of  which  they  were  inter- 
ested. The  more  interesting  of  these  had  her  back  to 
the  house ;  she  was  apparently  just  leaving  the  box, 
after  her  companion ;  but  as  she  had  not  put  on  her 
mantle  it  was  evident  that  they  were  not  quitting 
the  theatre.  Littlemore's  pursuit  of  fresh  air  did  not 
lead  him  into  the  street ;  he  had  passed  his  arm  into 
Waterville's,  and  when  they  reached  that  fine  frigid 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  9 

staircase  which  ascends  to  the  Foyer,  he  began  si- 
lently to  mount  it.  Littlemore  was  averse  to  active 
pleasures,  but  his  friend  reflected  that  now  at  least 
he  had  launched  himself — he  was  going  to  look  for 
the  lady  whom,  with  a  monosyllable,  he  appeared 
to  have  classified.  The  young  man  resigned  himself 
for  the  moment  to  asking  no  questions,  and  the 
two  strolled  together  into  the  shining  saloon  where 
Houdon's  admirable  statue  of  Voltaire,  reflected  in  a 
dozen  mirrors,  is  gaped  at  by  visitors  obviously  less 
acute  than  the  genius  expressed  in  those  living  fea- 
tures. Waterville  knew  that  Voltaire  was  very  witty ; 
he  had  read  Candide,  and  had  already  had  several 
opportunities  of  appreciating  the  statue.  The  Foyer 
was  not  crowded ;  only  a  dozen  groups  were  scattered 
over  the  polished  floor,  several  others  having  passed 
out  to  the  balcony  which  overhangs  the  square  of  the 
Palais  Royal.  The  windows  were  open,  the  brilliant 
lights  of  Paris  made  the  dull  summer  evening  look 
like  an  anniversary  or  a  revolution ;  a  murmur  of 
voices  seemed  to  come  up  from  the  streets,  and  even 
in  the  Foyer  one  heard  the  slow  click  of  the  horses 
and  the  rumble  of  the  crookedly-driven  fiacres  on  the 
hard,  smooth  asphalt.  A  lady  and  a  gentleman, 
with  their  backs  to  our  friends,  stood  before  the 
image  of  Voltaire;  the  lady  was  dressed  in  white, 
including  a  white  bonnet.  Littlemore  felt,  as  so 
many  persons  feel  in  that  spot,  that  the  scene  was 
conspicuously  Parisian,  and  he  gave  a  mysterious 
laugh. 

1* 


10  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  It  seems  comical  to  see  her  here  !  The  last  time 
was  in  New  Mexico." 

"  In  New  Mexico  ? " 

«  At  San  Diego."  . 

"  Oh,  on  the  back  piazza,"  said  Waterville,  putting 
things  together.  He  had  not  been  aware  of  the  posi- 
tion of  San  Diego,  for  if  on  the  occasion  of  his  lately 
being  appointed  to  a  subordinate  diplomatic  post  in 
London,  he  had  been  paying  a  good  deal  of  attention 
to  European  geography,  he  had  rather  neglected  that 
of  his  own  country. 

They  had  not  spoken  loud,  and  they  were  not  stand- 
ing near  her ;  but  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  heard  them, 
the  lady  in  white  turned  round.  Her  eye  caught 
Waterville's  first,  and  in  that  glance  he  saw  that  if 
she  had  heard  them  it  was  not  because  they  were 
audible  but  because  she  had  extraordinary  quickness 
of  ear.  There  was  no  recognition  in  it  —  there  was 
none,  at  first,  even  when  it  rested  lightly  upon  George 
Littlemore.  But  recognition  flashed  out  a  moment 
later,  accompanied  with  a  delicate  increase  of  color 
and  a  quick  extension  of  her  apparently  constant 
smile.  She  had  turned  completely  round ;  she  stood 
there  in  sudden  friendliness,  with  parted  lips,  with  a 
hand,  gloved  to  the  elbow,  almost  imperiously  offered. 
She  was  even  prettier  than  at  a  distance.  "  Well,  I 
declare ! "  she  exclaimed  :  so  loud  that  every  one  in 
the  room  appeared  to  feel  personally  addressed. 
Waterville  was  surprised ;  he  had  not  been  prepared, 
even  after  the  mention  of  the  back  piazza,  to  find  her 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  11 

an  American.  Her  companion  turned  round  as  she 
spoke ;  he  was  a  fresh,  lean  young  man,  in  evening 
dress ;  he  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets ;  Waterville 
imagined  that  he  at  any  rate  was  not  an  American. 
He  looked  very  grave  —  for  such  a  fair,  festive  young 
man  —  and  gave  Waterville  and  Littlemore,  though 
his  height  was  not  superior  to  theirs,  a  narrow,  verti- 
cal glance.  Then  he  turned  back  to  the  statue  of 
Voltaire,  as  if  it  had  been,  after  all,  among  his  pre- 
monitions that  the  lady  he  was  attending  would 
recognize  people  he  didn't  know,  and  didn't  even, 
perhaps,  care  to  know.  This  pdssibly  confirmed 
slightly  Littlemore's  assertion  that  she  was  not  re- 
spectable. The  young  man  was,  at  least;  consum- 
mately so.  "  Where  in  the  world  did  you  drop  from  ?" 
the  lady  inquired. 

"I  have  been  here  some  time,"  Littlemore  said, 
going  forward,  rather  deliberately,  to  shake  hands 
with  her.  He  smiled  a  little,  but  he  was  more  seri- 
ous than  she ;  he  kept  his  eye  on  her  own  as  if  she 
had  been  just  a  trifle  dangerous ;  it  was  the  manner 
in  which  a  duly  discreet  person  would  have  ap- 
proached some  glossy,  graceful  animal  which  had  an 
occasional  trick  of  biting. 

"  Here  in  Paris,  do  you  mean  ? " 
"  No  ;  here  and  there  —  in  Europe  generally." 
"  Well,  it 's  queer  I  have  n't  met  you." 
"  Better  late  than  never ! "  said  Littlemore.     His 
smile  was  a  little  fixed. 

"  Well,  you  look  very  natural,"  the  lady  went  on. 


12  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"So  do  you  —  or  very  charming  —  it's  the  same 
thing,"  Littlemore  answered,  laughing,  and  evidently 
wishing  to  be  easy.  It  was  as  if,  face  to  face,  and 
after  a  considerable  lapse  of  time,  he  had  found  her 
more  imposing  than  he  expected  when,~in  the  stalls 
below,  he  determined  to  come  and  meet  her.  As  he 
spoke,  the  young  man  who  was  with  her  gave  up  his 
inspection  of  Voltaire  and  faced  about,  listlessly,  with- 
out looking  either  at  Littlemore  or  at  Waterville. 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my  friend,"  she  went 
on.  "  Sir  Arthur  Demesne  —  Mr.  Littlemore.  Mr. 
Littlemore  —  Sir  Arthur  Demesne.  Sir  Arthur 
Demesne  is  an  Englishman  —  Mr.  Littlemore  is  a 
countryman  of  mine,  an  old  friend.  I  have  n't  seen 
him  for  years.  For  how  long?  Don't  let 's  count !  — 
I  wonder  you  knew  me,"  she  continued,  addressing 
Littlemore.  "  I'm  fearfully  changed."  All  this  was 
said  in  a  clear,  gay  tone,  which  was  the  more  audible 
as  she  spoke  with  a  kind  of  caressing  slowness.  The 
two  men,  to  do  honor  to  her  introduction,  silently 
exchanged  a  glance;  the  Englishman,  perhaps,  col- 
ored a  little.  He  was  very  conscious  of  his  com- 
panion. "  I  have  n't  introduced  you  to  many  people 
yet,"  she  remarked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Sir  Arthur  Demesne. 

"Well,  it's  queer  to  see  you  !"  she  exclaimed,  look- 
ing still  at  Littlemore.  "  You  have  changed,  too  — 
I  can  see  that." 

"  Not  where  you  are  concerned." 

"  That 's  what  I  want  to  find  out.    Why  don't  you 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  13 

introduce  your  friend?  I  see  he's  dying  to  know 
me!" 

Littlemore  proceeded  to  this  ceremony ;  but  he 
reduced  it  to  its  simplest  elements,  merely  glancing 
at  Eupert  Waterville,  and  murmuring  his  name. 

"You  didn't  tell  him  my  name,"  the  lady  cried, 
while  Waterville  made  her  a  formal  salutation.  "  I 
hope  you  have  n't  forgotten  it ! " 

Littlemore  gave  her  a  glance  which  was  intended 
to  be  more  penetrating  than  what  he  had  hitherto 
permitted  himself;  if  it  had  been  put  into  words 
it  would  have  said,  "  Ah,  but  which  name  ? " 

She  answered  the  unspoken  question,  putting  out 
her  hand,  as  she  had  done  to  Littlemore,  "  Happy  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Waterville.  I'm  Mrs. 
Headway  —  perhaps  you  Ve  heard  of  me.  If  you've 
ever  been  in  America,  you  must  have  heard  of  me. 
Not  so  much  in  New  York,  but  in  the  Western  cities. 
You  are  an  American  ?  Well,  then,  we  are  all  com- 
patriots—  except  Sir  Arthur  Demesne.  Let  me  in- 
troduce you  to  Sir  Arthur.  Sir  Arthur  Demesne,  Mr. 
Waterville — Mr.  Waterville,  Sir  Arthur  Demesne. 
Sir  Arthur  Demesne  is  a  member  of  Parliament ; 
don't  he  look  young  ? "  She  waited  for  no  answer 
to  this  question,  but  suddenly  asked  another,  as 
she  moved  her  bracelets  back  over  her  long,  loose 
gloves.  "  Well,  Mr.  Littlemore,  what  are  you  think- 
ing of?" 

He  was  thinking  that  he  must  indeed  have  forgot- 
ten her  name,  for  the  one  that  she  had  pronounced 


14  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

awakened  no  association.  But  he  could  hardly  tell 
her  that. 

"  I  'm  thinking  of  San  Diego." 

"  The  back  piazza,  at  my  sister's  ?  Oh,  don't ;  it 
was  too  horrid.  She  has  left  now.  I  believe  every 
one  has  left." 

Sir  Arthur  Demesne  drew  out  his  watch  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  could  take  no  part  in  these  domes- 
tic reminiscences ;  he  appeared  to  combine  a  generic 
self-possession  with  a  degree  of  individual  shyness. 
He  said  something  about  its  being  time  they  should 
go  back  to  their  seats,  but  Mrs.  Headway  paid  no 
attention  to  the  remark.  Waterville  wished  her  to 
linger :  he  felt  in  looking  at  her  as  if  he  had  been 
looking  at  a  charming  picture.  Her  low-growing 
hair,  with  its  fine  dense  undulations,  was  of  a  shade 
of  blackness  that  has  now  become  rare;  her  com- 
plexion had  the  bloom  of  a  white  flower ;  her  profile, 
when  she  turned  her  head,  was  as  pure  and  fine  as 
the  outline  of  a  cameo. 

"  You  know  this  is  the  first  theatre,"  she  said  to 
Waterville,  as  if  she  wished  to  be  sociable.  "And 
this  is  Voltaire,  the  celebrated  writer." 

"  I  'm  devoted  to  the  Comedie  Franchise,"  Water- 
ville answered,  smiling. 

"  Dreadfully  bad  house ;  we  did  n't  hear  a  word," 
said  Sir  Arthur. 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  boxes  ! "  murmured  Waterville. 

"I'm  rather  disappointed,"  Mrs.  Headway  went  on. 
"  But  I  want  to  see  what  becomes  of  that  woman." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  15 

"  Dona  Clorinde  ?  Oh,  I  suppose  they  '11  shoot 
her ;  they  generally  shoot  the  women,  in  French  plays," 
Littlemore  said. 

"  It  will  remind  me  of  San  Diego ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Headway. 

"  Ah,  at  San  Diego  the  women  did  the  shooting." 

"  They  don't  seem  to  have  killed  you ! "  Mrs.  Head- 
way rejoined,  archly. 

"  No,  but  I  am  riddled  with  wounds." 

"  Well,  this  is  very  remarkable,"  the  lady  went  on, 
turning  to  Houdon's  statue.  "  It 's  beautifully  mod- 
elled." 

"  You  are  perhaps  reading  M.  de  Voltaire,"  Little- 
more  suggested. 

"  No  ;  but  I  've  purchased  his  works." 

"  They  are  not  proper  reading  for  ladies,"  said  the 
young  Englishman,  severely,  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs. 
Headway. 

"  Ah,  you  might  have  told  me  before  I  had  bought 
them ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  exaggerated  dismay. 

"  I  could  n't  imagine  you  would  buy  a  hundred  and 
fifty  volumes." 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty  ?     I  have  only  bought  two." 

"  Perhaps  two  won't  hurt  you  ? "  said  Littlemore 
with  a  smile. 

She  darted  him  a  reproachful  ray.     "  I  know  what 

you  mean,  —  that  I  'm  too  bad  already !    Well,  bad 

as  I  am,  you  must  come  and  see  me."     And  she 

'  threw  him  the  name  of  her  hotel,  as  she  walked  away 

with  her  Englishman.     Waterville  looked  after  the 


16  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

latter  with  a  certain  interest ;  he  had  heard  of  him  in 
London,  and  had  seen  his  portrait  in  "  Vanity  Fair." 

It  was  not  yet  time  to  go  down,  in  spite  of  this 
gentleman's  saying  so,  and  Littlemore  and  his  friend 
passed  out  on  the  balcony  of  the  Foyer.  "  Headway 
—  Headway?  Where  the  deuce  did  she  get  that 
name  ? "  Littlemore  asked,  as  they  looked  down  into 
the  animated  dusk. 

"From  her  husband,  I  suppose,"  Waterville  sug- 
gested. 

"From  her  husband?  From  which?  The  last 
was  named  Beck." 

"  How  many  has  she  had  ? "  Waterville  inquired, 
anxious  to  hear  how  it  was  that  Mrs.  Headway  was 
not  respectable. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  But  it  wouldn't  be 
difficult  to  find  out,  as  I  believe  they  are  all  living. 
She  was  Mrs.  Beck  —  Nancy  Beck  —  when  I  knew 
her." 

"  Nancy  Beck ! "  cried  Waterville,  aghast.  He  was 
thinking  of  her  delicate  profile,  like  that  of  a  pretty  Eo- 
man  empress.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  explained. 

Littlemore  explained  it  in  a  few  words  before  they 
returned  to  their  places,  admitting  indeed  that  he 
was  not  yet  able  to  elucidate  her  present  situation. 
She  was  a  memory  of  his  Western  days ;  he  had  seen 
her  last  some  six  years  before.  He  had  known  her 
very  well  and  in  several  places;  the  circle  of  her 
activity  was  chiefly  the  Southwest.  This  activity 
was  of  a  vague  character,  except  in  the  sense  that  it 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  17 

was  exclusively  social.  She  was  supposed  to  have  a 
husband,  one  Philadelphia  Beck,  the  editor  of  a  Dem- 
ocratic newspaper,  the  DaJcotah  Sentinel;  but  Lit- 
tlemore  had  never  seen  him  —  the  pair  were  living 
apart  —  and  it  was  the  impression  at  San  Diego  that 
matrimony,  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beck,  was  about  played 
out.  He  remembered  now  to  have  heard  afterwards 
that  she  was  getting  a  divorce.  She  got  divorces  very 
easily,  she  was  so  taking  in  court.  She  had  got  one 
or  two  before  from  a  man  whose  name  he  had  for- 
gotten, and  there  was  a  legend  that  even  these  were 
not  the  first.  She  had  been  exceedingly  divorced ! 
When  he  first  met  her  in  California,  she  called  her- 
self Mrs.  Greuville,  which  he  had  been  given  to 
understand  was  not  an  appellation  acquired  in  matri- 
mony, but  her  parental  name,  resumed  after  the  dis- 
solution of  an  unfortunate  union.  She  had  had  these 
episodes  —  her  unions  were  all  unfortunate  —  and 
had  borne  half  a  dozen  names.  She  was  a  charming 
woman,  especially  for  New  Mexico ;  but  she  had  been 
divorced  too  often  —  it  was  a  tax  on  one's  credulity ; 
she  must  have  repudiated  more  husbands  than  she 
had  married. 

At  San  Diego  she  was  staying  with  her  sister, 
whose  actual  spouse  (she,  too,  had  been  divorced),  the 
principal  man  of  the  place,  kept  a  bank  (with  the 
aid  of  a  six-shooter),  and  who  had  never  suffered 
Nancy  to  want  for  a  home  during  her  unattached  pe- 
riods. Nancy  had  begun  very  young ;  she  must  -be 
about  thirty-seven  to-day.  That  was  all  he  meant 


18  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

by  her  not  being  respectable.  The  chronology  was 
rather  mixed ;  her  sister  at  least  had  once  told  him 
that  there  was  one  winter  when  she  did  n't  know  her- 
self wJw  was  Nancy's  husband.  She  had  gone  in 
mainly  for  editors  —  she  esteemed  the  journalistic 
profession.  They  must  all  have  been  dreadful  ruffians, 
for  her  own  amiability  was  manifest.  It  was  well 
known  that  whatever  she  had  done  she  had  done  in 
self-defence.  In  fine,  she  had  done  things ;  that  was 
the  main  point  now  !  She  was  very  pretty,  good- 
natured  and  clever,  and  quite  the  best  company  in 
those  parts.  She  was  a  genuine  product  of  the  far 
West  —  a  flower  of  the  Pacific  slope;  ignorant,  auda- 
cious, crude,  but  full  of  pluck  and  spirit,  of  natural 
intelligence,  and  of  a  certain  intermittent,  haphazard 
good  taste.  She  used  to  say  that  she  only  wanted  a 
chance  —  apparently  she  had  found  it  now.  At  one 
time,  without  her,  he  did  n't  see  how  he  could  have 
put  up  with  the  life.  He  had  started  a  cattle-ranch, 
to  which  San  Diego  was  the  nearest  town,  and  he 
used  to  ride  over  to  see  her.  Sometimes  he  stayed 
there  for  a  week ;  then  he  went  to  see  her  every  even- 
ing. It  was  horribly  hot ;  they  used  to  sit  on  the 
back  piazza.  She  was  always  as  attractive,  and  very 
nearly  as  well-dressed,  as  they  had  just  beheld  her. 
As  far  as  appearance  went,  she  might  have  been 
transplanted  at  an  hour's  notice  from  that  dusty  old 
settlement  to  the  city  by  the  Seine. 

"Some  of  those  "Western  women  are  wonderful," 
Littlemore  said.   "  Like  her,  they  only  want  a  chance." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  19 

He  had  not  been  in  love  with  her  —  there  never 
was  anything  of  that  sort  between  them.  There 
might  have  been  of  course ;  but  as  it  happened  there 
was  not.  Headway  apparently  was  the  successor  of 
Beck ;  perhaps  there  had  been  others  between.  She 
was  in  no  sort  of  "society;"  she  only  had  a  local 
reputation  ("  the  elegant  and  accomplished  Mrs. 
Beck,"  the  newspapers  called  her —  the  other  editors, 
to  whom  she  was  n't  married),  though,  indeed,  in  that 
spacious  civilization  the  locality  was  large.  She 
knew  nothing  of  the  East,  and  to  the  best  of  his  be- 
lief at  that  period  had  never  seen  New  York.  Vari- 
ous things  might  have  happened  in  those  six  years, 
however ;  no  doubt  she  had  "  come  up."  The  West 
was  sending  us  everything  (Littlemore  spoke  as  a 
New  Yorker) ;  no  doubt  it  would  send  us  at  last  our 
brilliant  women.  This  little  woman  used  to  look 
quite  over  the  head  of  New  York;  even  in  those 
days  she  thought  and  talked  of  Paris,  which  there 
was  no  prospect  of  her  knowing ;  that  was  the  way 
she  had  got  on  in  New  Mexico.  She  had  had  her 
ambition,  her  presentiments ;  she  had  known  she  was 
meant  for  better  things.  Even  at  San  Diego  she  had 
prefigured  her  little  Sir  Arthur ;  every  now  and  then  a 
wandering  Englishman  came  within  her  range.  They 
were  not  all  baronets  and  M.  P.'s,  but  they  were  usu- 
ally a  change  from  the  editors.  What  she  was  doing 
with  her  present  acquisition  he  was  curious  to  see. 
She  was  certainly  —  if  he  had  any  capacity  for  that 
state  of  inind,  which  was  not  too  apparent —  making 


20  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

him  happy.  She  looked  very  splendid;  Headway 
had  probably  made  a  "  pile,"  an  achievement  not  to 
be  imputed  to  any  of  the  others.  She  did  n't  accept 
money  —  he  was  sure  she  did  n't  accept  money. 

On  their  way  back  to  their  seats  Littlemore,  whose 
tone  had  been  humorous,  but  with  that  strain  of  the 
pensive  which  is  inseparable  from  retrospect,  sud- 
denly broke  into  audible  laughter. 

"  The  modelling  of  a  statue  and  the  works  of  Vol- 
taire ! "  he  exclaimed,  recurring  to  two  or  three  things 
she  had  said.  "  It 's  comical  to  hear  her  attempt 
those  flights,  for  in  New  Mexico  she  knew  nothing 
about  modelling." 

"  She  did  n't  strike  me  as  affected,"  Waterville  re- 
joined, feeling  a  vague  impulse  to  take  a  considerate 
view  of  her. 

"  Oh,  no ;  she 's  only  —  as  she  says  —  fearfully 
changed." 

They  were  in  their  places  before  the  play  went  on 
again,  and  they  both  gave  another  glance  at  Mrs. 
Headway's  box.  She  leaned  back,  slowly  fanning 
herself,  and  evidently  watching  Littlemore,  as  if  she 
had  been  waiting  to  see  him  come  in.  Sir  Arthur 
Demesne  sat  beside  her,  rather  gloomily,  resting  a 
round  pink  chin  upon  a  high  stiff  collar ;  neither  of 
them  seemed  to  speak. 

"  Are  you  sure  she  makes  him  happy  ? "  Waterville 
asked. 

"  Yes  —  that 's  the  way  those  people  show  it." 

"  But  does  she  go  about  alone  with  him  that  way  ? 
Where 's  her  husband  ?" 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  21 

"  I  suppose  she  has  divorced  him." 

"  And  does  she  want  to  marry  the  baronet  ? "  Wa- 
terville  asked,  as  if  his  companion  were  omniscient. 

It  amused  Lit  tie  more  for  the  moment  to  appear  so. 
"  He  wants  to  marry  her,  I  guess." 

"  And  be  divorced,  like  the  others  ? " 

"  Oh,  no ;  this  time  she  has  got  what  she  wants," 
said  Littlemore,  as  the  curtain  rose. 

He  suffered  three  days  to  elapse  before  he  called 
at  the  Hotel  Meurice,  which  she  had  designated, 
and  we  may  occupy  this  interval  in  adding  a  few 
words  to  the  story  we  have  taken  from  his  lips. 
George  Littlemore's  residence  in  the  far  West  had 
been  of  the  usual  tentative  sort  —  he  had  gone  there 
to  replenish  a  pocket  depleted  by  youthful  extrava- 
gance. His  first  attempts  had  failed ;  the  days  were 
passing  away  when  a  fortune  was  to  be  picked  up 
even  by  a  young  man  who  might  be  supposed  to  have 
inherited  from  an  honorable  father,  lately  removed, 
some  of  those  fine  abilities,  mainly  dedicated  to  the 
importation  of  tea,  to  which  the  elder  Mr.  Littlemore 
was  indebted  for  the  power  of  leaving  his  son  well 
off.  Littlemore  had  dissipated  his  patrimony,  and  he 
was  not  quick  to  discover  his  talents,  which,  consist- 
ing chiefly  of  an  unlimited  faculty  for  smoking  and 
horse-breaking,  appeared  to  lie  in  the  direction  of 
none  of  the  professions  called  liberal.  He  had  been 
sent  to  Harvard  to  have  his  aptitudes  cultivated,  but 
here  they  took  such  a  form  that  repression  had  been 
found  more  necessary  than  stimulus  —  repression 


22  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

embodied  in  an  occasional  sojourn  in  one  of  the  lovely 
villages  of  the  Connecticut  valley.  Kustication  saved 
him,  perhaps,  in  the  sense  that  it  detached  him ;  it 
destroyed  his  ambitions,  which  had  been  foolish.  At 
the  age  of  thirty,  Littlemore  had  mastered  none  of 
the  useful  arts,  unless  we  include  in  the  number  the 
great  art  of  indifference.  He  was  roused  from  his 
indifference  by  a  stroke  of  good  luck.  To  oblige  a 
friend  who  was  even  in  more  pressing  need  of  cash 
than  himself,  he  had  purchased  for  a  moderate  sum 
(the  proceeds  of  a  successful  game  of  poker)  a  share 
in  a  silver-mine  which  the  disposer,  with  unusual 
candor,  admitted  to  be  destitute  of  metal.  Little- 
more  looked  into  his  mine  and  recognized  the  truth 
of  the  contention,  which,  however,  was  demolished 
some  two  years  later  by  a  sudden  revival  of  curiosity 
on  the  part  of  one  of  the  other  shareholders.  This 
gentleman,  convinced  that  a  silver-mine  without  sil- 
ver is  as  rare  as  an  effect  without  a  cause,  discovered 
the  sparkle  of  the  precious  element  deep  down  in  the 
reasons  of  things.  The  discovery  was  agreeable  to 
Littlemore,  and  was  the  beginning  of  a  fortune  which, 
through  several  dull  years  and  in  many  rough  places, 
he  had  repeatedly  despaired  of,  and  which  a  man 
whose  purpose  was  never  very  keen  did  not  perhaps 
altogether  deserve.  It  was  before  he  saw  himself 
successful  that  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
lady  now  established  at  the  Hotel  Meurice.  To-day 
he  owned  the  largest  share  in  his  mine,  which  re- 
mained perversely  productive,  and  which  enabled 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  23 

him  to  buy,  among  other  things,  in  Montana,  a  cattle- 
ranch  of  much  finer  proportions  than  the  dry  acres 
near  San  Diego.  Eanches  and  mines  encourage  secu- 
rity, and  the  consciousness  of  not  having  to  watch 
the  sources  of  his  income  too  anxiously  (an  obliga- 
tion which  for  a  man  of  his  disposition  spoils  every- 
thing) now  added  itself  to  his  usual  coolness.  It  was 
not  that  this  same  coolness  had  not  been  consider- 
ably tried.  To  take  only  one  —  the  principal  —  in- 
stance :  he  had  lost  his  wife  after  only  a  twelve- 
month of  marriage,  some  three  years  before  the  date 
at  which  we  meet  him.  He  was  more  than  forty 
when  he  encountered  and  wooed  a  young  girl  of 
twenty-three,  who,  like  himself,  had  consulted  all 
the  probabilities  in  expecting  a  succession  of  happy 
years.  She  left  him  a  small  daughter,  now  intrusted 
to  the  care  of  his  only  sister,  the  wife  of  an  English 
squire  and  mistress  of  a  dull  park  in  Hampshire. 
This  lady,  Mrs.  Dolphin  by  name,  had  captivated  her 
landowner  during  a  journey  in  which  Mr.  Dolphin 
had  promised  himself  to  examine  the  institutions  of 
the  United  States.  The  institution  on  which  he  re- 
ported most  favorably  was  the  pretty  girls  of  the 
larger  towns,  and  he  returned  to  New  York  a  year  or 
two  later  to  marry  Miss  Littlemore,  who,  unlike  her 
brother,  had  not  wasted  her  patrimony.  Her  sister- 
in-law,  married  many  years  later,  and  coming  to  Eu- 
rope on  this  occasion,  had  died  in  London  —  where 
she  flattered  herself  the  doctors  were  infallible  —  a 
week  after  the  birth  of  her  little  girl;  and  poor  Little- 


24  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

more,  though  relinquishing  his  child  for  the  moment, 
remained  in  these  disappointing  countries,  to  be 
within  call  of  the  Hampshire  nursery.  He  was 
rather  a  noticeable  man,  especially  since  his  hair  and 
mustache  had  turned  white.  Tall  and  strong,  with 
a  good  figure  and  a  bad  carriage,  he  looked  capable 
but  indolent,  and  was  usually  supposed  to  have  an 
importance  of  which  he  was  far  from  being  conscious. 
His  eye  was  at  once  keen  and  quiet,  his  smile  dim 
and  dilatory,  but  exceedingly  genuine.  His  principal 
occupation  to-day  was  doing  nothing,  and  he  did  it 
with  a  sort  of  artistic  perfection.  This  faculty  ex- 
cited real  envy  on  the  part  of  Eupert  "VVaterville, 
who  was  ten  years  younger  than  he,  and  who  had 
too  many  ambitions  and  anxieties  —  none  of  them 
very  important,  but  making  collectively  a  consider- 
able incubus  —  to  be  able  to  wait  for  inspiration. 
He  thought  it  a  great  accomplishment,  he  hoped  some 
day  to  arrive  at  it ;  it  made  a  man  so  independent ; 
he  had  his  resources  within  his  own  breast.  Little- 
more  could  sit  for  a  whole  evening,  without  utterance 
or  movement,  smoking  cigars  and  looking  absently  at 
his  finger-nails.  As  every  one  knew  that  he  was  a 
good  fellow  and  had  made  his  fortune,  this  dull  be- 
havior could  not  well  be  attributed  to  stupidity  or 
to  moroseness.  It  seemed  to  imply  a  fund  of  reminis- 
cence, an  experience  of  life  which  had  left  him  hun- 
dreds of  things  to  think  about.  Waterville  felt  that 
if  he  could  make  a  good  use  of  these  present  years, 
and  keep  a  sharp  look-out  for  experience,  he  too,  at 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  25 

forty-five,  might  have  time  to  look  at  his  finger-nails. 
He  had  an  idea  that  such  contemplations  —  not  of 
course  in  their  literal,  but  in  their  symbolic  intensity 
—  were  a  sign  of  a  man  of  the  world.  Waterville, 
reckoning  possibly  without  an  ungrateful  Depart- 
ment of  State,  had  also  an  idea  that  he  had  embraced 
the  diplomatic  career.  He  was  the  junior  of  the  two 
Secretaries  who  render  the  personnel  of  the  United 
States  Legation  in  London  exceptionally  numerous, 
and  was  at  present  enjoying  his  annual  leave  of  ab- 
sence. It  became  a  diplomatist  to  be  inscrutable, 
and  though  he  had  by  no  means,  as  a  whole,  taken 
Littlemore  as  his  model  —  there  were  much  better 
ones  in  the  diplomatic  body  in  London  —  he  thought 
he  looked  inscrutable  when  of  an  evening,  in  Paris, 
after  he  had  been  asked  what  he  would  like  to  do, 
he  replied  that  he  should  like  to  do  nothing,  and 
simply  sat  for  an  interminable  time  in  front  of  the 
Grand  Cafe*,  on  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine  (he 
was  very  fond  of  cafe's),  ordering  a  succession  of  demi- 
tasses.  It  was  very  rarely  that  Littlemore  cared  even 
to  go  to  the  theatre,  and  the  visit  to  the  Comedie  Fran- 
gaise,  which  we  have  described,  had  been  undertaken 
at  Waterville's  instance.  He  had  seen  Le  Demi- 
Monde  a  few  nights  before,  and  had  been  told  that 
E Aventuribre  would  show  him  a  particular  treatment 
of  the  same  subject —  the  justice  to  be  meted  out  to 
unscrupulous  women  who  attempt  to  thrust  them- 
selves into  honorable  families.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  in  both  of  these  cases  the  ladies  had  deserved 

2 


26  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

their  fate,  but  he  wished  it  might  have  been  brought 
about  by  a  little  less  lying  on  the  part  of  the  repre- 
sentatives of  honor.  Littlemore  and  he,  without  be- 
ing intimate,  were  very  good  friends,  and  spent  much 
of  their  time  together.  As  it  turned  out,  Littlemore 
was  very  glad  he  had  gone  to  the  theatre,  for  he 
found  himself  much  interested  in  this  new  incarna- 
tion of  Nancy  Beck. 


II. 


His  delay  in  going  to  see  her  was  nevertheless 
calculated ;  there  were  more  reasons  for  it  than  it  is 
necessary  to  mention.  But  when  he  went,  Mrs. 
Headway  was  at  home,  and  Littlemore  was  not  sur- 
prised to  see  Sir  Arthur  Demesne  in  her  sitting-room. 
There  was  something  in  the  air  which  seemed  to  in- 
dicate that  this  gentleman's  visit  had  already  lasted  a 
certain  time.  Littlemore  thought  it  probable  that, 
given  the  circumstances,  he  would  now  bring  it  to  a 
close ;  he  must  have  learned  from  their  hostess  that 
Littlemo-re  was  an  old  and  familiar  friend.  He  might 
of  course  have  definite  rights  —  he  had  every  appear- 
ance of  it ;  but  the  more  definite  they  were  the  more 
gracefully  he  could  afford  to  waive  them.  Littlemore 
made  these  reflections  while  Sir  Arthur  Demesne  sat 
there  looking  at  him  without  giving  any  sign  of  de- 
parture. Mrs.  Headway  was  very  gracious  —  she 
had  the  manner  of  having  known  you  a  hundred 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  27 

years ;  she  scolded  Littlemore  extravagantly  for  not 
having  been  to  see  her  sooner,  but  this  was  only  a 
form  of  the  gracious.  By  daylight  she  looked  a  little 
faded ;  but  she  had  an  expression  which  could  never 
fade.  She  had  the  best  rooms  in  the  hotel,  and  an 
air  of  extreme  opulence  and  prosperity ;  her  courier 
sat  outside,  in  the  ante-chamber,  and  she  evidently 
knew  how  to  live.  She  attempted  to  include  Sir  Ar- 
thur in  the  conversation,  but  though  the  young  man 
remained  in  his  place,  he  declined  to  be  included. 
He  smiled,  in  silence ;  but  he  was  evidently  uncomfort- 
able. The  conversation,  therefore,  remained  superfi- 
cial —  a  quality  that,  of  old,  had  by  no  means 
belonged  to  Mrs.  Headway's  interviews  with  her 
friends.  The  Englishman  looked  at  Littlemore  with 
a  strange,  perverse  expression  which  Littlemore,  at 
first,  with  a  good  deal  of  private  amusement,  simply 
attributed  to  jealousy. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Arthur,  I  wish  very  much  you  would 
go,"  Mrs.  Headway  remarked,  at  the  end  of  a  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

Sir  Arthur  got  up  and  took  his  hat.  "  I  thought  I 
should  oblige  you  by  staying." 

"  To  defend  me  against  Mr.  Littlemore  ?  I  've 
known  him  since  I  was  a  baby  —  I  know  the  worst  he 
can  do."  She  fixed  her  charming  smile  for  a  moment 
on  her  retreating  visitor,  and  she  added,  with  much  un- 
expectedness, "  I  want  to  talk  to  him  about  my  past ! " 

"  That 's  just  what  I  want  to  hear,"  said  Sir  Arthur, 
with  his  hand  on  the  door. 


28  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  We  are  going  to  talk  American ;  you  would  n't 
understand  us  !  —  He  speaks  in  the  English  style," 
she  explained,  in  her  little  sufficient  way,  as  the  bar- 
onet, who  announced  that  at  all  events  he  would 
come  back  in  the  evening,  let  himself  out. 

"  He  does  n't  know  about  your  past  ? "  Littlemore 
inquired,  trying  not  to  make  the  question  sound  im- 
pertinent. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  Ve  told  him  everything  ;  but  he 
does  n't  understand.  The  English  are  so  peculiar ;  I 
think  they  are  rather  stupid.  He  has  never  heard  of 
a  woman  being  — "  But  here  Mrs.  Headway 
checked  herself,  while  Littlemore  filled  out  the  blank. 
"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  It  does  n't  matter,"  she 
went  on ;  "  there  are  more  things  in  the  world  than 
those  people  have  heard  of.  However,  I  like  them 
very  much ;  at  least  I  like  him.  He 's  such  a  gentle- 
man ;  do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  Only,  he  stays 
too  long,  and  he  is  n't  amusing.  I  'm  very  glad  to  see 
you,  for  a  change." 

"  Do  you  mean  I  'm  not  a  gentleman  ? "  Littlemore 
asked. 

"  No  indeed  ;  you  used  to  be,  in  New  Mexico.  I 
think  you  were  the  only  one  —  and  I  hope  you  are 
still.  That 's  why  I  recognized  you  the  other  night ; 
I  might  have  cut  you,  you  know." 

"  You  can  still,  if  you  like.     It 's  not  too  late." 

"  Oh,  no ;  that 's  not  what  I  want.  I  want  you  to 
help  me." 

«  To  help  you  ? " 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  29 

Mrs.  Headway  fixed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  on  the 
door.  "  Do  you  suppose  that  man  is  there  still  ? " 

"  That  young  man  —  your  poor  Englishman  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  mean  Max.  Max  is  my  courier/'  said  Mrs. 
Headway,  with  a  certain  impressiveness. 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea.     I  '11  see,  if  you  like." 

"  No ;  in  that  case  I  should  have  to  give  him  an 
order,  and  I  don't  know  what  in  the  world  to  ask  him 
to  do.  He  sits  there  for  hours ;  with  my  simple  hab- 
its I  afford  him  no  employment.  I  am  afraid  I  have 
no  imagination." 

"  The  burden  of  grandeur,"  said  Littlemore. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  'm  very  grand.  But  on  the  whole  I 
like  it.  I  'm  only  afraid  he  '11  hear.  I  talk  so  very 
loud ;  that 's  another  thing  I  'm  trying  to  get  over." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  be  different  ? " 

"  Well,  because  everything  else  is  different,"  Mrs. 
Headway  rejoined,  with  a  little  sigh.  "Did  you 
hear  that  I  'd  lost  iny  husband  ? "  she  went  on, 
abruptly. 

"Do  you  mean  —  a  —  Mr. ?  "  and  Littlemore 

paused,  with  an  effect  that  did  not  seem  to  come 
home  to  her. 

"I  mean  Mr.  Headway,"  she  said,  with  dignity. 
"I've  been  through  a  good  deal  since  you  saw  me 
last :  marriage,  and  death,  and  trouble,  and  all  sorts 
of  things." 

"You  had  been  through  a  good  deal  of  marriage 
before  that,"  Littlemore  ventured  to  observe. 

She  rested  her  eyes  on  him  with  soft  brightness, 


30  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

and  without  a  change  of  color.     "  Not  so  much  —  not 
so  much  —  " 

"  Not  so  much  as  might  have  been  thought." 

"  Not  so  much  as  was  reported.  I  forget  whether 
I  was  married  when  I  saw  you  last." 

"  It  was  one  of  the  reports,"  said  Littlemore.  "  But 
I  never  saw  Mr.  Beck." 

"  You  did  n't  lose  much ;  he  was  a  simple  wretch  ! 
I  have  done  certain  things  in  my  life  which  I  have 
never  understood;  no  wonder  others  can't  under- 
stand them.  But  that 's  all  over  !  Are  you  sure  Max 
does  n't  hear  ? "  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  Not  at  all  sure.  But  if  you  suspect  him  of  listen- 
ing at  the  keyhole,  I  would  send  him  away." 

"  I  don't  think  he  does  that.  I  am  always  rushing 
to  the  door." 

"  Then  he  does  n't  hear.  I  had  no  idea  you  had  so 
many  secrets.  When  I  parted  with  you,  Mr.  Head- 
way was  in  the  future." 

"  "Well,  now  he 's  in  the  past.  He  was  a  pleasant 
man  —  I  can  understand  my  doing  that.  But  he 
only  lived  a  year.  He  had  neuralgia  of  the  heart;  he 
left  me  very  well  off."  She  mentioned  these  various 
facts  as  if  they  were  quite  of  the  same  order. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it ;  you  used  to  have  expensive 
tastes." 

"I  have  plenty  of  money,"  said  Mrs.  Headway. 
"Mr.  Headway  had  property  at  Denver,  which  has 
increased  immensely  in  value.  After  his  death  I 
tried  New  York.  But  I  don't  like  New  York."  Lit- 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  31 

tlemore's  hostess  uttered  this  last  sentence  in  a  tone 
which  was  the  resume  of  a  social  episode.  "  I  mean 
to  live  in  Europe  —  I  like  Europe,"  she  announced  ; 
and  the  manner  of  the  announcement  had  a  touch  of 
prophecy,  as  the  other  words  had  had  a  reverberation 
of  history. 

Littlemore  was  very  much  struck  with  all  this,  and 
he  was  greatly  entertained  with  Mrs.  Headway.  "  Are 
you  travelling  with  that  young  man  ? "  he  inquired, 
with  the  coolness  of  a  person  who  wishes  to  make  his 
entertainment  go  as  far  as  possible. 

She  folded  her  arms  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 
"  Look  here,  Mr.  Littlemore,"  she  said ;  "  I  'in  about  as 
good-natured  as  1  used  to  be  in  America,  but  I  know 
a  great  deal  more.  Of  course  I  ain't  travelling  with 
that  young  man  ;  he 's  only  a  friend." 

"  He  is  n't  a  lover  ? "  asked  Littlemore,  rather  cru- 
elly. 

"  Do  people  travel  with  their  lovers  ?  I  don't  want 
you  to  laugh  at  me  —  I  want  you  to  help  me."  She 
fixed  her  eyes  on  him  with  an  air  of  tender  remon- 
strance that  might  have  touched  him  ;  she  looked  so 
gentle  and  reasonable.  "  As  I  tell  you,  I  have  taken 
a  great  fancy  to  this  old  Europe  ;  I  feel  as  if  I  should 
never  go  back.  But  I  want  to  see  something  of  the 
life.  I  think  it  would  suit  me  —  if  I  could  get 
started  a  little.  Mr.  Littlemore,"  she  added,  in  a  mo- 
ment —  "I  may  as  well  be  frank,  for  I  ain't  at  all 
ashamed.  I  want  to  get  into  society.  That 's  what 
I  'm  after ! " 


32  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON, 

Littlemore  settled  himself  in  his  chair,  with  the 
feeling  of  a  man  who,  knowing  that  he  will  have  to 
pull,  seeks  to  obtain  a  certain  leverage.  It  was  in  a 
tone  of  light  jocosity,  almost  of  encouragement,  how- 
ever, that  he  repeated :  "  Into  society  ?  It  seems  to 
me  you  are  in  it  already,  with  baronets  for  your  ador- 
ers." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  want  to  know  ! "  she  said,  with 
a  certain  eagerness.  "  Is  a  baronet  much  ? " 

"  So  they  are  apt  to  think.  But  I  know  very  little 
about  it." 

"  Ain't  you  in  society  yourself  ? " 

"  I  ?  Never  in  the  world !  Where  did  you  get 
that  idea  ?  I  care  no  more  about  society  than  about 
that  copy  of  the  Figaro" 

Mrs.  Headway's  countenance  assumed  for  a  mo- 
ment a  look  of  extreme  disappointment,  and  Little- 
more  could  see  that,  having  heard  of  his  silver-mine 
and  his  cattle-ranch,  and  knowing  that  he  was  living 
in  Europe,  she  had  hoped  to  find  him  immersed  in 
the  world  of  fashion.  But  she  speedily  recovered 
herself.  "  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  You  know 
you  're  a  gentleman  —  you  can't  help  yourself." 

"  I  may  be  a  gentleman,  but  I  have  none  of  the 
habits  of  one."  Littlemore  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  he  added  —  "I  lived  too  long  in  the  great  South- 
west." 

She  flushed  quickly;  she  instantly  understood  — 
understood  even  more  that  he  had  meant  to  say. 
But  she  wished  to  make  use  of  him,  and  it  was  of 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  33 

more  importance  that  she  should  appear  forgiving  — 
especially  as  she  had  the  happy  consciousness  of  be- 
ing so,  than  that  she  should  punish  a  cruel  speech. 
She  could  afford,  however,  to  be  lightly  ironical. 
"  That  makes  no  difference  —  a  gentleman  is  always 
a  gentleman." 

14  Not  always,"  said  Littlemore,  laughing. 

"It's  impossible  that,  through  your  sister,  you 
should  n't  know  something  about  European  society," 
said  Mrs.  Headway. 

At  the  mention  of  his  sister,  made  with  a  studied 
lightness  of  reference  which  he  caught  as  it  passed, 
Littlemore  was  unable  to  repress  a  start.  "  What  in 
the  world  have  you  got  to  do  with  my  sister  ? "  he 
would  have  liked  to  say.  The  introduction  of  this 
lady  was  disagreeable  to  him ;  she  belonged  to  quite 
another  order  of  ideas,  and  it  was  out  of  the  question 
that  Mrs.  Headway  should  ever  make  her  acquaintance 

—  if  this  was  what,  as  that  lady  would  have  said  — 
she  was  "  after."     But  he  took  advantage  of  a  side- 
issue.      "What   do   you   mean  by    European  soci- 
ety ?     One  can't  talk  about  that.     It 's  a  very  vague 
phrase." 

"Well,  I  mean  English  society  —  I  mean  the  so- 
ciety your  sister  lives  in  —  that's  what  I  mean,"  said 
Mrs.  Headway,  who  was  quite  prepared  to  be  defi- 
nite. "  I  mean  the  people  I  saw  in  London  last  May 

—  the  people  I  saw  at  the  opera  and  in  the  park,  the 
people  who  go  to  the  Queen's  drawing-rooms.    When 
I  was  in  London  I  stayed  at  that  hotel  on  the  corner 

2* 


34  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

of  Piccadilly  —  that  looking  straight  down  St.  James's 
Street  —  and  I  spent  hours  together  at  the  window 
looking  at  the  people  in  the  carriages.  I  had  a  car- 
riage of  my  own,  and  when  I  was  not  at  my  window 
I  was  driving  all  round.  I  was  all  alone ;  I  saw 
every  one,  but  I  knew  no  one  —  I  had  no  one  to  tell 
me.  I  did  n't  know  Sir  Arthur  then  —  I  only  met 
him  a  month  ago  at  Homburg.  He  followed  me  to 
Paris  —  that 's  how  he  came  to  be  my  guest."  Se- 
renely, prosaically,  without  any  of  the  inflation  of 
vanity,  Mrs.  Headway  made  this  last  assertion;  it 
was  as  if  she  were  used  to  being  followed,  or  as  if  a 
gentleman  one  met  at  Homburg  would  inevitably  fol- 
low. In  the  same  tone  she  went  on :  "  I  attracted  a 
good  deal  of  attention  in  London  —  I  could  easily  see 
that." 

"  You  '11  do  that  wherever  you  go,"  Littlemore  said, 
insufficiently  enough,  as  he  felt. 

"  I  don't  want  to  attract  so  much  ;  I  think  it 's  vul- 
gar," Mrs.  Headway  rejoined,  with  a  certain  soft 
sweetness  which  seemed  to  denote  the  enjoyment  of 
a  new  idea.  She  was  evidently  open  to  new  ideas. 

"  Every  one  was  looking  at  you  the  other  night  at 
the  theatre,"  Littlemore  continued.  "How  can  you 
hope  to  escape  notice  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  escape  notice  —  people  have  al- 
ways looked  at  me,  and  I  suppose  they  always  will. 
But  there  are  different  ways  of  being  looked  at,  and  I 
know  the  way  I  want.  I  mean  to  have  it,  too ! "  Mrs. 
Headway  exclaimed.  Yes,  she  was  very  definite. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  35 

Littlemore  sat  there,  face  to  face  with  her,  and  for 
some  time  he  said  nothing.  He  had  a  mixture  of 
feelings,  and  the  memory  of  other  places,  other  hours, 
was  stealing  over  him.  There  had  been  of  old  a  very 
considerable  absence  of  interposing  surfaces  between 
these  two — he  had  known  her  as  one  knew  people  only 
in  the  great  Southwest.  He  had  liked  her  extremely, 
in  a  town  where  it  would  have  been  ridiculous  to  be 
difficult  to  please.  But  his  sense  of  this  fact  was 
somehow  connected  with  Southwestern  conditions; 
his  liking  for  Nancy  Beck  was  an  emotion  of  which 
the  proper  setting  was  a  back  piazza.  She  presented 
herself  here  on  a  new  basis  —  she  appeared  to  desire 
to  be  classified  afresh.  Littlemore  said  to  himself 
that  this  was  too  much  trouble  ;  he  had  taken  her  in 
that  way  —  lie  could  n't  begin  at  this  time  of  day  to 
take  her  in  another  way.  He  asked  himself  whether 
she  were  going  to  be  a  bore.  It  was  not  easy  to  sup- 
pose Mrs.  Headway  capable  of  this  offence ;  but  she 
might  become  tiresome  if  she  were  bent  upon  being 
different.  It  made  him  rather  afraid  when  she  began 
to  talk  about  European  society,  about  his  sister,  about 
things  being  vulgar.  Littlemore  was  a  very  good 
fellow,  and  he  had  at  least  the  average  human  love 
of  justice ;  but  there  was  in  his  composition  an  ele- 
ment of  the  indolent,  the  sceptical,  perhaps  even  the 
brutal,  which  made  him  desire  to  preserve  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  former  terms  of  intercourse.  He  had 
no  particular  desire  to  see  a  woman  rise  again,  as  the 
mystic  process  was  called ;  he  did  n't  believe  in  wo- 


36  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

men's  rising  again.  He  believed  in  their  not  going 
down;  thought  it  perfectly  possible  and  eminently 
desirable,  but  held  it  was  much  better  for  society  that 
they  should  not  endeavor,  as  the  French  say,  to  meler 
les  genres.  In  general,  he  did  n't  pretend  to  say  what 
was  good  for  society  —  society  seemed  to  him  in 
rather  a  bad  way ;  but  he  had  a  conviction  on  this 
particular  point.  Nancy  Beck  going  in  for  the  great 
prizes,  that  spectacle  might  be  entertaining  for  a 
simple  spectator ;  but  it  would  be  a  nuisance,  an  em- 
barrassment, from  the  moment  anything  more  than 
contemplation  should  be  expected  of  him.  He  had 
no  wish  to  be  rough,  but  it  might  be  well  to  show 
her  that  he  was  not  to  be  humbugged. 

"  Oh,  if  there 's  anything  you  want  you  '11  have  it," 
he  said  in  answer  to  her  last  remark.  "You  have 
always  had  what  you  want." 

"Well,  I  want  something  new  this  time.     Does 
your  sister  reside  in  London  ? " 
-    "  My  dear  lady,  what  do  you  know  about  my  sis- 
ter ? "  Littlemore  asked.     "  She 's  not  a  woman  you 
would  care  for." 

Mrs.  Headway  was  silent  a  moment.  "  You  don't 
respect  me!"  she  exclaimed  suddenly  in  a  loud,  al- 
most gay  tone  of  voice.  If  Littlemore  wished,  as  I 
say,  to  preserve  the  simplicity  of  their  old  terms  of 
intercourse,  she  was  apparently  willing  to  humor 
him. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Beck  .  .  .  ! "  he  cried,  vaguely, 
protestingly,  and  using  her  former  name  quite  by 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  37 

accident.  At  San  Diego  he  had  never  thought 
whether  he  respected  her  or  not;  that  never  came 
up. 

"  That 's  a  proof  of  it  —  calling  me  by  that  hateful 
name  !  Don't  you  believe  I  'm.  married  ?  I  have  n't 
been  fortunate  in  my  names/'  she  added,  pensively. 

"  You  make  it  very  awkward  when  you  say  such 
mad  things.  My  sister  lives  most  of  the  year  in  the 
country;  she  is  very  simple,  rather  dull,  perhaps  a 
trifle  narrow-minded.  You  are  very  clever,  very 
lively,  and  as  wide  as  all  creation.  That's  why  I 
think  you  would  n't  like  her." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  run  down  your  sis- 
ter ! "  cried  Mrs.  Headway.  "  You  told  me  once  — 
at  San  Diego  —  that  she  was  the  nicest  woman  you 
knew.  I  made  a  note  of  that,  you  see.  And  you 
told  me  she  was  just  my  age.  So  that  makes  it 
rather  uncomfortable  for  you,  if  you  won't  introduce 
me  !"  And  Littlemore's  hostess  gave  a  pitiless  laugh. 
"  I  'm  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  her  being  dull.  It 's 
very  distinguished  to  be  dull.  I'm  ever  so  much 
too  lively." 

"  You  are  indeed,  ever  so  much  !  But  nothing  is 
more  easy  than  to  know  my  sister,"  said  Littlemore, 
who  knew  perfectly  that  what  he  said  was  untrue. 
And  then,  as  a  diversion  from  this  delicate  topic, 
he  suddenly  asked,  "Are  you  going  to'  marry  Sir 
Arthur?" 

"Don't  you  think  I  've  been  married  about 
enough?" 


38  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"Possibly;  but  this  is  a  new  line,  it  would  be 
different.  An  Englishman  —  that 's  a  new  sensa- 
tion." 

"  If  I  should  marry,  it  would  be  a  European,"  said 
Mrs.  Headway  calmly. 

"  Your  chance  is  very  good ;  they  are  all  marrying 
Americans." 

"  He  would  have  to  be  some  one  fine,  the  man  I 
should  marry  now.  I  have  a  good  deal  to  make  up 
for!  That's  what  I  want  to  know  about  Sir  Ar- 
thur ;  all  this  time  you  have  n't  told  me." 

"  I  have  nothing  in  the  world  to  tell  —  I  have 
never  heard  of  him.  Has  n't  he  told  you  himself  ? " 

"  Nothing  at  all ;  he  is  very  modest.  He  does  n't 
brag,  nor  make  himself  out  anything  great.  That 's 
what  I  like  him  for  :  I  think  it 's  in  such  good  taste. 
I  like  good  taste  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Headway.  "  But 
all  this  time,"  she  added,  "  you  have  n't  told  me  you 
would  help  me." 

"  How  can  I  help  you  ?  I  'm  no  one,  I  have  no 
power." 

"  You  can  help  me  by  not  preventing  me.  I  want 
you  to  promise  not  to  prevent  me."  She  gave  him 
her  fixed,  bright  gaze  again ;  her  eyes  seemed  to  look 
far  into  his. 

"  Good  Lord,  how  could  I  prevent  you  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  you  could.  But  you  might 
try." 

"I'm  too  indolent,  and  too  stupid,"  said  Little- 
more  jocosely. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  39 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  musing  as  she  still  looked  at 
him.  "  I  think  you  are  too  stupid.  But  I  think  you 
are  also  too  kind,"  she  added  more  graciously.  She 
was  almost  irresistible  when  she  said  such  a  thing  as 
that. 

They  talked  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer,  and  at 
last  —  as  if  she  had  had  scruples  —  she  spoke  to  him 
of  his  own  marriage,  of  the  death  of  his  wife,  matters 
to  which  she  alluded  more  felicitously  (as  he  thought) 
than  to  some  other  points.  "  If  you  have  a  little 
girl  you  ought  to  be  very  happy ;  that 's  what  I 
should  like  to  have.  Lord,  I  should  make  her  a  nice 
woman  !  Not  like  me  —  in  another  style ! "  When 
he  rose  to  leave  her,  she  told  him  that  he  must  come 
and  see  her  very  often ;  she  was  to  be  some  weeks 
longer  in  Paris ;  he  must  bring  Mr.  Waterville. 

"Your  English  friend  won't  like  that —  our  coming 
very  often,"  Littlemore  said,  as  he  stood  with  his  hand 
on  the  door. 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  has  got  to  do  with  it,"  she 
answered,  staring. 

"Neither  do  I.  Only  he  must  be  in  love  with 
you." 

"That  doesn't  give  him  any  right.  Mercy,  if  I 
had  had  to  put  myself  out  for  all  the  men  that  have 
been  in  love  with  me  ! " 

"  Of  course  you  would  have  had  a  terrible  life ! 
Even  doing  as  you  please,  you  have  had  rather  an 
agitated  one.  But  your  young  Englishman's  senti- 
ments appear  to  give  him  the  right  to  sit  there,  after 


40  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

one  comes  in,  looking  blighted  and  bored.  That 
might  become  very  tiresome." 

"The  moment  he  becomes  tiresome  I  send  him 
away.  You  can  trust  me  for  that." 

"  Oh,"  said  Littlemore,  "  it  does  n't  matter,  after  all.'' 
He  remembered  that  it  would  be  very  inconvenient 
to  him  to  have  undisturbed  possession  of  Mrs.  Head- 
way. 

She  came  out  with  him  into  the  antechamber. 
Mr.  Max,  the  courier,  was  fortunately  not  there. 
She  lingered  a  little ;  she  appeared  to  have  more  to 
say. 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  likes  you  to  come,"  she 
remarked  in  a  moment ;  "  he  wants  to  study  my 
friends." 

"To  study  them?" 

"He  wants  to  find  out  about  me,  and  he  thinks 
they  may  tell  him  something.  Some  day  he  will  ask 
you  right  out,  'What  sort  of  a  woman  is  she,  any 
way?'" 

"  Has  n't  he  found  out  yet  ? " 

"He  does  n't  understand  me,"  said  Mrs.  Headway, 
surveying  the  front  of  her  dress.  "  He  has  never  seen 
any  one  like  me." 

"  I  should  imagine  not ! " 

"  So  he  will  ask  you,  as  I  say." 

"  I  will  tell  him  you  are  the  most  charming  woman 
in  Europe." 

"  That  ain't  a  description !  Besides,  he  knows  it. 
He  wants  to  know  if  I'm  respectable." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  41 

"He's  very  curious!"  Littlemore  cried,  with  a 
laugh. 

She  grew  a  little  pale ;  she  seemed  to  be  watching 
his  lips.  "  Mind  you  tell  him,"  she  went  on  with  a 
smile  that  brought  none  of  her  color  back. 

"  Eespectable  ?   I  '11  tell  him  you  're  adorable  ! " 

Mrs.  Headway  stood  a  moment  longer.  "Ah, 
you  're  no  use ! "  she  murmured.  And  she  suddenly 
turned  away  and  passed  back  into  her  sitting-room, 
slowly  drawing  her  far-trailing  skirts. 


III. 


"  Elle  ne  se  doute  de  rien  I "  Littlemore  said  to 
himself  as  he  walked  away  from  the  hotel;  and  he 
repeated  the  phrase  in  talking  about  her  to  Waterville. 
"  She  wants  to  be  right,"  he  added ;  "  but  she  will 
never  really  succeed ;  she  has  begun  too  late,  she  will 
never  be  more  than  half-right.  However,  she  won't 
know  when  she 's  wrong,  so  it  does  n't  signify  ! "  And 
then  he  proceeded  to  assert  that  in  some  respects  she 
would  remain  incurable ;  she  had  no  delicacy ;  no 
discretion,  no  shading;  'she  was  a  woman  who 
suddenly  said  to  you,  "  You  don't  respect  me ! "  As  if 
that  were  a  thing  for  a  woman  to  say  ! 

"  It  depends  upon  what  she  meant  by  it."  Water- 
ville liked  to  see  the  meanings  of  things. 

"  The  more  she  meant  by  it  the  less  she  ought  to 
say  it ! "  Littlemore  declared. 


42  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

But  he  returned  to  the  Hotel  Meurice,  and  on  the 
next  occasion  he  took  Waterville  with  him.  The 
Secretary  of  Legation,  who  had  not  often  been  in  close 
quarters  with  a  lady  of  this  ambiguous  quality,  was 
prepared  to  regard  Mrs.  Headway  as  a  very  curious 
type.  He  was  afraid  she  might  be  dangerous ;  but,  on 
the  whole,  he  felt  secure.  The  object  of  his  devotion 
at  present  was  his  country,  or  at  least  the  Depart- 
ment of  State  ;  he  had  no  intention  of  being  diverted 
from  that  allegiance.  Besides,  he  had  his  ideal  of  the 
attractive  woman  —  a  person  pitched  in  a  very  much 
lower  key  than  this  shining,  smiling,  rustling,  chat- 
tering daughter  of  the  Territories.  The  woman  he 
should  care  for  would  have  repose,  a  certain  love  of 
privacy  —  she  would  sometimes  let  one  alone.  Mrs. 
Headway  was  personal,  familiar,  intimate ;  she  was 
always  appealing  or  accusing,  demanding  explanations 
and  pledges,  saying  things  one  had  to  answer.  All  this 
was  accompanied  with  a  hundred  smiles  and  radiations 
and  other  natural  graces,  but  the  general  effect  of  it 
was  slightly  fatiguing.  She  had  certainly  a  great 
deal  of  charm,  an  immense  desire  to  please,  and  a 
wonderful  collection  of  dresses  and  trinkets ;  but  she 
was  eager  and  preoccupied,  and  it  was  impossible 
that  other  people  should  share  her  eagerness.  If  she 
wished  to  get  into  society,  there  was  no  reason  why 
her  bachelor  visitors  should  wish  to  see  her  there ;  for 
it  was  the  absence  of  the  usual  social  incumbrances 
which  made  her  drawing-room  attractive.  There  was 
no  doubt  whatever  that  she  was  several  women  in  one, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  43 

and  she  ought  to  content  herself  with  that  sort  of 
numerical  triumph.  Littleinore  said  to  Waterville 
that  it  was  stupid  of  her  to  wish  to  scale  the  heights ; 
she  ought  to  know  how  much  more  she  was  in  her 
place  down  below.  She  appeared  vaguely  to  irritate 
him ;  even  her  fluttering  attempts  at  self-culture  —  she 
had  become  a  great  critic,  and  handled  many  of  the 
productions  of  the  age  with  a  bold,  free  touch  —  con- 
stituted a  vague  invocation,  an  appeal  for  sympathy 
which  was  naturally  annoying  to  a  man  who  disliked 
the  trouble  of  revising  old  decisions,  consecrated  by  a 
certain  amount  of  reminiscence  that  might  be  called 
tender.  She  had,  however,  one  palpable  charm ;  she 
was  full  of  surprises.  Even  Waterville  was  obliged 
to  confess  that  an  element  of  the  unexpected  was  not 
to  be  excluded  from  his  conception  of  the  woman  who 
should  have  an  ideal  repose.  Of  course  there  were  two 
kinds  of  surprises,  and  only  one  of  them  was  thoroughly 
pleasant,  though  Mrs.  Headway  dealt  impartially  in 
both.  She  had  the  sudden  delights,  the  odd  exclama- 
tions, the  queer  curiosities  of  a  person  who  has  grown 
up  in  a  country  where  everything  is  new  and  many 
things  ugly,  and  who,  with  a  natural  turn  for  the  arts 
and  amenities  of  life,  makes  a  tardy  acquaintance 
with  some  of  the  finer  usages,  the  higher  pleasures. 
She  was  provincial  —  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was 
provincial ;  that  took  no  great  cleverness.  But  what 
was  Parisian  enough  —  if  to  be  Parisian  was  the 
measure  of  success  —  was  the  way  she  picked  up 
ideas  and  took  a  hint  from  every  circumstance.  "  Only 


44  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

give  me  time,  and  I  shall  know  all  I  have  need  of," 
she  said  to  Littleuiore,  who  watched  her  progress 
with  a  mixture  of  admiration  and  sadness.  She  de- 
lighted to  speak  of  herself  as  a  poor  little  barbarian 
who  was  trying  to  pick  up  a  few  crumbs  of  knowledge, 
and  this  habit  took  great  effect  from  her  delicate  face, 
her  perfect  dress,  and  the  brilliancy  of  her  manners. 

One  of  her  surprises  was  that  after  that  first  visit 
she  said  no  more  to  Littlemore  about  Mrs.  Dolphin. 
He  did  her  perhaps  the  grossest  injustice ;  but  he  had 
quite  expected  her  to  bring  up  this  lady  whenever 
they  met.  "  If  she  will  only  leave  Agnes  alone,  she 
may  do  what  she  will,"  he  said  to  Waterville,  express- 
ing his  relief.  "  My  sister  would  never  look  at  her, 
and  it  would  be  very  awkward  to  have  to  tell  her 
so."  She  expected  assistance  ;  she  made  him  feel  that 
simply  by  the  way  she  looked  at  him ;  but  for  the 
moment  she  demanded  no  definite  service.  She  held 
her  tongue,  but  she  waited,  and  her  patience  itself 
was  a  kind  of  admonition.  In  the  way  of  society,  it 
must  be  confessed,  her  privileges  were  meagre,  Sir 
Arthur  Demesne  and  her  two  compatriots  being,  so 
far  as  the  latter  could  discover,  her  only  visitors. 
She  might  have  had  other  friends,  but  she  held  her 
head  very  high,  and  liked  better  to  see  no  one  than 
not  to  see  the  best  company.  It  was  evident  that  she 
flattered  herself  that  she  produced  the  effect  of  being, 
not  neglected,  but  fastidious.  There  were  plenty  of 
Americans  in  Paris,  but  in  this  direction  she  failed  to 
extend  her  acquaintance ;  the  nice  people  would  n't 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  45 

come  and  see  her,  and  nothing  would  have  induced 
her  to  receive  the  others.  She  had  the  most  exact 
conception  of  the  people  she  wished  to  see  and  to 
avoid.  Littlemore  expected  every  day  that  she  would 
ask  him  why  he  did  n't  bring  some  of  his  friends,  and 
he  had  his  answer  ready.  It  was  a  very  poor  one,  for 
it  consisted  simply  of  a  conventional  assurance  that 
he  wished  to  keep  her  for  himself.  She  would  be  sure 
to  retort  that  this  was  very  "  thin,"  as,  indeed,  it  was ; 
but  the  days  went  by  without  her  calling  him  to  ac- 
count. The  little  American  colony  in  Paris  is  rich 
in  amiable  women,  but  there  were  none  to  whom 
Littlemore  could  make  up  his  mind  to  say  that  it 
would  be  a  favor  to  him  to  call  on  Mrs.  Headway. 
He  should  n't  like  ttiem  the  better  for  doing  so,  and  he 
wished  to  like  those  of  whom  he  might  ask  a  favor. 
Except,  therefore,  that  he  occasionally  spoke  of  her  as 
a  little  Western  woman,  very  pretty  and  rather  queer, 
who  had  formerly  been  a  great  chum  of  his,  she  re- 
mained unknown  in  the  salons  of  the  Avenue  Gabriel 
and  the  streets  that  encircle  the  Arch  of  Triumph. 
To  ask  the  men  to  go  and  see  her,  without  asking  the 
ladies,  would  only  accentuate  the  fact  that  he  did  n't 
ask  the  ladies  ;  so  he  asked  no  one  at  all.  Besides, 
it  was  true — just  a  little  —  that  he  wished  to  keep 
her  to  himself,  and  he  was  fatuous  enough  to  believe 
that  she  cared  much  more  for  him  than  for  her 
Englishman.  Of  course,  however,  he  would  never 
dream  of  marrying  her,  whereas  the  Englishman 
apparently  was  immersed  in  that  vision.  She  hated 


46  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

her  past ;  she  used  to  announce  that  very  often,  talk- 
ing of  it  as  if  it  were  an  appendage  of  the  same 
order  as  a  dishonest  courier,  or  even  an  inconvenient 
protrusion  of  drapery.  Therefore,  as  Littlemore  was 
part  of  her  past,  it  might  have  been  supposed  that  she 
would  hate  him  too,  and  wish  to  banish  him,  with 
all  the  images  he  recalled,  from  her  sight.  But  she 
made  an  exception  in  his  favor,  and  if  she  disliked 
their  old  relations  as  a  chapter  of  her  own  history,  she 
seemed  still  to  like  them  as  a  chapter  of  his.  He 
felt  that  she  clung  to  him,  that  she  believed  he  could 
help  her  and  in  the  long  run  would.  It  was  to  the 
long  run  that  she  appeared  little  by  little  to  have 
attuned  herself. 

She  succeeded  perfectly  in  maintaining  harmony 
between  Sir  Arthur  Demesne  and  her  American 
visitors,  who  spent  much  less  time  in  her  drawing- 
room.  She  had  easily  persuaded  him  that  there  were 
no  grounds  for  jealousy,  and  that  they  had  no  wish, 
as  she  said,  to  crowd  him  out ;  for  it  was  ridiculous  to 
be  jealous  of  two  persons  at  once,  and  Eupert  Water- 
ville,  after  he  had  learned  the  way  to  her  hospitable 
apartment,  appeared  there  as  often  as  his  friend 
Littlemore.  The  two,  indeed,  usually  came  together, 
and  they  ended  by  relieving  their  competitor  of  a 
certain  sense  of  responsibility.  This  amiable  and 
excellent  but  somewhat  limited  and  slightly  pre- 
tentious young  man,  who  had  not  yet  made  up  his 
mind,  was  sometimes  rather  oppressed  with  the  mag- 
nitude of  his  undertaking,  and  when  he  was  alone 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  47 

with  Mrs.  Headway  the  tension  of  his  thoughts 
occasionally  became  quite  painful.  He  was  very 
slim  and  straight,  and  looked  taller  than  his  height ; 
he  had  the  prettiest,  silkiest  hair,  which  waved  away 
from  a  large  white  forehead,  and  he  was  endowed 
with  a  nose  of  the  so-called  Eoman  model.  He 
looked  younger  than  his  years  (in  spite  of  those  last 
two  attributes),  partly  on  account  of  the  delicacy  of 
his  complexion  and  the  almost  childlike  candor  of 
bis  round  blue. eye.  He  was  diffident  and  self-con- 
scious ;  there  were  certain  letters  he  could  not  pro- 
nounce. At  the  same  time  he  had  the  manners  of 
a  young  man  who  had  been  brought  up  to  fill  a  con- 
siderable place  in  the  world,  with  whom  a  certain 
correctness  had  become  a  habit,  and  who,  though  he 
might  occasionally  be  a  little  awkward  about  small 
things,  would  be  sure  to  acquit  himself  honorably  in 
great  ones.  He  was  very  simple,  and  he  believed 
himself  very  serious  ;  he  had  the  blood  of  a  score  of 
Warwickshire  squires  in  his  veins ;  mingled  in  the 
last  instance  with  the  somewhat  paler  fluid  which 
animated  the  long-necked  daughter  of  a  banker  who 
had  expected  an  earl  for  his  son-in-law,  but  who  had 
consented  to  regard  Sir  Baldwin  Demesne  as  the 
least  insufficient  of  baronets.  The  boy,  the  only 
one,  had  come  into  his  title  at  five  years  of  age  ;  his 
mother,  who  disappointed  her  auriferous  sire  a  sec- 
ond time  when  poor  Sir  Baldwin  broke  his  neck  in 
the  hunting  field,  watched  over  him  with  a  tender- 
ness that  burned  as  steadily  as  a  candle  shaded  by 


48  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

a  transparent  hand.  She  never  admitted,  even  to 
herself,  that  he  was  not  the  cleverest  of  men  ;  but  it 
took  all  her  own  cleverness,  which  was  much  greater 
than  his,  to  maintain  this  appearance.  Fortunately 
he  was  not  wild,  so  that  he  would  never  marry  an 
actress  or  a  governess,  like  two  or  three  of  the  young 
men  who  had  been  at  Eton  with  him.  With  this 
ground  of  nervousness  the  less,  Lady  Demesne  awaited 
with  an  air  of  confidence  his  promotion  to  some  high 
office.  He  represented  in  Parliament  the  Conserva- 
tive instincts  and  vote  of  a  red-roofed  market  town, 
and  sent  regularly  to  his  bookseller  for  all  the  new 
publications  on  economical  subjects,  for  he  was  deter- 
mined that  his  political  attitude  should  have  a  firm 
statistical  basis.  He  was  not  conceited ;  he  was  only 
misinformed  —  misinformed,  I  mean,  about  himself. 
He  thought  himself  indispensable  in  the  scheme  of 
things  —  not  as  an  individual,  but  as  an  institution. 
This  conviction,  however,  was  too  sacred  to  betray 
itself  by  vulgar  assumptions.  If  he  was  a  little  man 
in  a  big  place,  he  never  strutted  nor  talked  loud ;  he 
merely  felt  it  as  a  kind  of  luxury  that  he  had  a 
large  social  circumference.  It  was  like  sleeping  in  a 
big  bed ;  one  did  n't  toss  about  the  more,  but  one  felt 
a  greater  freshness. 

He  had  never  seen  anything  like  Mrs.  Headway ; 
he  hardly  knew  by  what  standard  to  measure  her. 
She  was  not  like  an  English  lady  —  not  like  those  at 
least  with  whom  he  had  been  accustomed  to  converse ; 
and  yet  it  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  she  had  a 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  49 

standard  of  her  own.  He  suspected  that  she  was 
provincial,  but  as  he  was  very  much  under  the  charm 
he  compromised  matters  by  saying  to  himself  that 
she  was  only  foreign.  It  was  of  course  provincial  to 
be  foreign ;  but  this  was,  after  all,  a  peculiarity  which 
she  shared  with  a  great  many  nice  people.  He  was 
not  wild,  and  his  mother  had  flattered  herself  that  in 
this  all-important  matter  he  would  not  be  perverse  ; 
but  it  was  all  the  same  most  unexpected  that  he 
should  have  taken  a  fancy  to  an  American  widow, 
five  years  older  than  himself,  who  knew  no  one  and 
who  sometimes  did  n't  appear  to  understand  exactly 
who  he  was.  Though  he  disapproved  of  it,  it  was 
precisely  her  foreignness  that  pleased  him  ;  she 
seemed  to  be  as  little  as  possible  of  his  own  race  and 
creed ;  there  was  not  a  touch  of  Warwickshire  in  her 
composition  She  was  like  an  Hungarian  or  a  Pole, 
with  the  difference  that  he  could  almost  understand 
her  language.  The  unfortunate  young  man  was  fas- 
cinated, though  he  had  not  yet  admitted  to  himself 
that  he  was  in  love.  He  would  be  very  slow  and  de- 
liberate in  such  a  position,  for  he  was  deeply  con- 
scious of  its  importance.  He  was  a  young  man  who 
had  arranged  his  life ;  he  had  determined  to  marry  at 
thirty-two.  A  long  line  of  ancestors  was  watching 
him  ;  he  hardly  knew  what  they  would  think  of  Mrs. 
Headway.  He  hardly  knew  what  he  thought  him- 
self; the  only  thing  he  was  absolutely  sure  of  was 
that  she  made  the  time  pass  as  it  passed  in  no  other 
pursuit.  He  was  vaguely  uneasy ;  he  was  by  no 


50  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

means  sure  it  was  right  the  time  should  pass  like 
that.     There  was  nothing  to  show  for  it  but  the  frag- 
ments of  Mrs.  Headway's  conversation,  the  peculiari- 
ties of  her  accent,  the  sallies  of  her  wit,  the  audacities 
of  her  fancy,  her  mysterious  allusions  to  her  past.    Of 
course  he  knew  that  she  had  a  past ;  she  was  not  a 
young  girl,  she  was  a  widow  —  and  widows  are  essen- 
tially an  expression  of  an  accomplished  fact.      He 
was  not  jealous  of  her  antecedents,  but  he  wished  to 
understand  them,  and  it  was  here  that  the  difficulty 
occurred.      The   subject   was   illumined   with   fitful 
flashes,  but  it  never  placed  itself  before  him  as  a  gen- 
eral picture.     He  asked  her  a  good  many  questions, 
but  her  answers  were  so  startling  that,  like  sudden 
luminous  points,  they  seemed  to  intensify  the  dark- 
ness round  their  edges.     She  had  apparently  spent 
her  life  in  an  inferior  province  of  an  inferior  country ; 
but  it  didn't  follow  from  this  that  she  herself  had 
been  low.     She  had  been  a  lily  among  thistles  ;  and 
there  was  something  romantic  in  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion taking  an  interest  in  such  a  woman.     It  pleased 
Sir  Arthur  to  believe  he  was  romantic ;  that  had  been 
the  case  with  several  of  his  ancestors,  who  supplied  a 
precedent  without  which  he  would  perhaps  not  have 
ventured  to  trust  himself.     He  was  the  victim  of  per- 
plexities from  which  a  single  spark  of  direct  percep- 
tion would  have  saved  him.     He  took  everything  in 
the  literal  sense ;  he  had  not  a  grain  of  humor.     He 
sat  there  vaguely  waiting  for  something  to  happen, 
and  not  committing  himself  by  rash  declarations.     If 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  51 

he  was  in  love,  it  was  in  his  own  way,  reflectively, 
inexpressively,  obstinately.  He  was  waiting  for  the 
formula  which  would  justify  his  conduct  and  Mrs. 
Headway's  peculiarities.  He  hardly  knew  where  it 
would  come  from  ;  you  might  have  thought  from  his 
manner  that  he  would  discover  it  in  one  of  the  elab- 
orate entrees  that  were  served  to  the  pair  when  Mrs. 
Headway  consented  to  dine  with  him  at  Bignon's  or 
the  Cafe*  Anglais ;  or  in  one  of  the  numerous  band- 
boxes that  arrived  from  the  Eue  de  la  Paix,  and  from 
which  she  often  lifted  the  lid  in  the  presence  of  her 
admirer.  There  were  moments  when  he  got  weary 
of  waiting  in  vain,  and  at  these  moments  the  arrival 
of  her  American  friends  (he  often  wondered  that  she 
had  so  few),  seemed  to  lift  the  mystery  from  his 
shoulders  and  give  him  a  chance  to  rest.  This  formula 
—  she  herself  was  not  yet  able  to  give  it,  for  she  was 
not  aware  how  much  ground  it  was  expected  to 
cover.  She  talked  about  her  past,  because  she 
thought  it  the  best  thing  to  do ;  she  had  a  shrewd 
conviction  that  it  was  better  to  make  a  good  use  of  it 
than  to  attempt  to  efface  it.  To  efface  it  was  impos- 
sible, though  that  was  what  she  would  have  preferred. 
She  had  no  objection  to  telling  fibs,  but  now  that  she 
was  taking  a  new  departure,  she  wished  to  tell  only 
those  that  were  necessary.  She  would  have  been  de- 
lighted if  it  had  been  possible  to  tell  none  at  all.  A 
few,  however,  were  indispensable,  and  we  need  not 
attempt  to  estimate  more  closely  the  ingenious  re-ar- 
rangements of  fact  with  which  she  entertained  and 


52  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

mystified  Sir  Arthur.  She  knew  of  course  that  as  a 
product  of  fashionable  circles  she  was  nowhere,  but 
she  might  have  great  success  as  a  child  of  nature. 


IV. 


KUPERT  WATERVILLE,  in  the  midst  of  intercourse 
in  which  every  one  perhaps  had  a  good  many  mental 
reservations,  never  forgot  that  he  was  in  a  representa- 
tive position,  that  he  was  responsible,  official ;  and 
he  asked  himself  more  than  once  how  far  it  was  per- 
mitted to  him  to  countenance  Mrs.  Headway's  pre- 
tensions to  being  an  American  lady  typical  even  of 
the  newer  phases.  In  his  own  way  he  was  as  puzzled 
as  poor  Sir  Arthur,  and  indeed  he  flattered  himself 
that  he  was  as  particular  as  any  Englishman  could 
be.  Suppose  that  after  all  this  free  association  Mrs. 
Headway  should  come  over  to  London  and  ask  at  the 
Legation  to  be  presented  to  the  Queen?  It  would 
be  so  awkward  to  refuse  her  —  of  course  they  would 
have  to  refuse  her — that  he  was  very  careful  about 
making  tacit  promises.  She  might  construe  any- 
thing as  a  tacit  promise  —  he  knew  how  the  smallest 
gestures  of  diplomatists  were  studied  and  interpreted. 
It  was  his  effort  therefore  to  be  really  the  diploma- 
tist in  his  relations  with  this  attractive  but  danger- 
ous woman.  The  party  of  four  used  often  to  dine 
together  —  Sir  Arthur  pushed  his  confidence  so  far 
—  and  on  these  occasions  Mrs.  Headway,  availing 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  53 

herself  of  one  of  the  privileges  of  a  lady,  even  at  the 
most  expensive  restaurant  —  used  to  wipe  her  glasses 
with  her  napkin.  One  evening,  when  after  polishing 
a  goblet  she  held  it  up  to  the  light,  giving  it,  with 
her  head  on  one  side,  the  least  glimmer  of  a  wink,  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  watched  her  that  she  looked 
like  a  modern  bacchante.  He  noticed  at  this  mo- 
ment that  the  baronet  was  gazing  at  her  too,  and  he 
wondered  if  the  same  idea  had  come  to  him.  He 
often  wondered  what  the  baronet  thought ;  he  had 
devoted  first  and  last  a  good  deal  of  speculation  to 
the  baronial  class.  Littlemore,  alone,  at  this  mo- 
ment, was  not  observing  Mrs.  Headway ;  he  never 
appeared  to  observe  her,  though  she  often  observed 
him.  Waterville  asked  himself  among  other  things 
why  Sir  Arthur  had  not  brought  his  own  friends 
to  see  her,  for  Paris  during  the  several  weeks  that 
now  elapsed  was  rich  in  English  visitors.  He  won- 
dered whether  she  had  asked  him  and  he  had  re- 
fused ;  he  would  have  liked  very  much  to  know 
whether  she  had  asked  him.  He  explained  his  curi- 
osity to  Littlemore,  who,  however,  took  very  little 
interest  in  it.  Littlemore  said,  nevertheless,  that  he 
had  no  doubt  she  had  asked  him ;  she  never  would 
be  deterred  by  false  delicacy. 

"  She  has  been  very  delicate  with  you,"  Water- 
ville replied.  "  She  has  n't  been  at  all  pressing 
of  late?' 

"  It  is  only  because  she  has  given  me  up ;  she 
thinks  I'm  a  brute." 


54  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"I  wonder  what  she  thinks  of  me,"  Waterville 
said,  pensively. 

"  Oh,  she  counts  upon  you  to  introduce  her  to  the 
Minister.  It's  lucky  for  you  that  our  representa- 
tive here  is  absent." 

"Well,"  Waterville  rejoined,  "the  Minister  has 
settled  two  or  three  difficult  questions,  and  I  suppose 
he  can  settle  this  one.  I  shall  do  nothing  but  by 
the  orders  of  my  chief."  He  was  very  fond  of  talk- 
ing about  his  chief. 

"She  does  me  injustice,"  Littlemore  added  in  a 
moment.  "I  have  spoken  to  several  people  about 
her." 

"Ah ;  but  what  have  you  told  them  ? " 

"That  she  lives  at  the  Hotel  Meurice;  and  that 
she  wants  to  know  nice  people." 

"They  are  flattered,  I  suppose,  at  your  thinking 
them  nice,  but  they  don't  go,"  said  Waterville. 

"  I  spoke  of  her  to  Mrs.  Bagshaw,  and  Mrs.  Bag- 
shaw  has  promised  to  go." 

"  Ah,"  Waterville  murmured ;  "you  don't  call 
Mrs.  Bagshaw  nice  ?  Mrs.  Headway  won't  see 
her." 

"  That 's  exactly  what  she  wants,  —  to  be  able  to 
cut  some  one ! " 

Waterville  had  a  theory  that  Sir  Arthur  was  keep- 
ing Mrs.  Headway  as  a  surprise  —  he  meant  perhaps 
to  produce  her  during  the  next  London  season.  He 
presently,  however,  learned  as  much  about  the  matter 
as  he  could  have  desired  to  know.  He  had  once 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  55 

offered  to  accompany  his  beautiful  compatriot  to  the 
Museum  of  the  Luxembourg  and  tell  her  a  little 
about  the  modern  French  school.  She  had  not  ex- 
amined this  collection,  in  spite  of  her  determination 
to  see  everything  remarkable  (she  carried  her  Murray 
in  her  lap  even  when  she  went  to  see  the  great  tailor 
in  the  Eue  de  la  Paix,  to  whom,  as  she  said,  she  had 
given  no  end  of  points) ;  for  she  usually  went  to  such 
places  with  Sir  Arthur,  and  Sir  Arthur  was  indiffer- 
ent to  the  modern  painters  of  France.  "  He  says 
there  are  much  better  men  in  England.  I  must  wait 
for  the  Royal  Academy,  next  year.  He  seems  to 
think  one  can  wait  for  anything,  but  I  'm  not  so  good 
at  waiting  as  he.  I  can't  afford  to  wait  —  I've 
waited  long  enough."  So  much  as  this  Mrs.  Head- 
way said  on  the  occasion  of  her  arranging  with  Rupert 
Waterville  that  they  should  some  day  visit  the  Lux- 
embourg together.  She  alluded  to  the  Englishman 
as  if  he  were  her  husband  or  her  brother,  her  natural 
protector  and  companion. 

"I  wonder  if  she  knows  how  that  sounds? "  Water- 
ville said  to  himself.  "  I  don't  believe  she  would  do 
it  if  she  knew  how  it  sounds."  And  he  made  the 
further  reflection  that  when  one  arrived  from  San 
Diego  there  was  no  end  to  the  things  one  had  to 
learn :  it  took  so  many  things  to  make  a  well-bred 
woman.  Clever  as  she  was,  Mrs.  Headway  was  right 
in  saying  that  she  couldn't  afford  to  wait.  She 
must  learn  quickly.  She  wrote  to  Waterville  one 
day  to  propose  that  thfey  should  go  to  the  Museum 


56  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

on  the  morrow ;  Sir  Arthur's  mother  was  in  Paris,  on 
her  way  to  Cannes,  where  she  was  to  spend  the  win- 
ter. She  was  only  passing  through,  but  she  would 
be  there  three  days  and  he  would  naturally  give 
himself  up  to  her.  She  appeared  to  have  the  proper- 
est  ideas  as  to  what  a  gentleman  would  propose  to 
do  for  his  mother.  She  herself,  therefore,  would  be 
free,  and  she  named  the  hour  at  which  she  should 
expect  him  to  call  for  her.  He  was  punctual  to  the 
appointment,  and  they  drove  across  the  river  in  the 
large  high-hung  barouche  in  which  she  constantly 
rolled  about  Paris.  With  Mr.  Max  on  the  box  —  the 
courier  was  ornamented  with  enormous  whiskers  — 
this  vehicle  had  an  appearance  of  great  respectability, 
though  Sir  Arthur  assured  her  —  she  repeated  this  to 
her  other  friends  —  that  in  London,  next  year,  they 
would  do  the  thing  much  better  for  her.  It  struck 
her  other  friends  of  course  that  the  baronet  was  pre- 
pared to  be  very  consistent,  and  this  on  the  whole 
was  what  Waterville  would  have  expected  of  him. 
Littlemore  simply  remarked  that  at  San  Diego  she 
drove  herself  about  in  a  rickety  buggy,  with  muddy 
wheels,  and  with  a  mule  very  often  in  the  shafts. 
Waterville  felt  something  like  excitement  as  he  asked 
himself  whether  the  baronet's  mother  would  now  con- 
sent to  know  her.  She  must  of  course  be  aware  that 
it  was  a  woman  who  was  keeping  her  son  in  Paris  at 
a  season  when  English  gentlemen  were  most  natu- 
rally employed  in  shooting  partridges. 

"  She  is  staying  at  the  Hotel  du  Ehin,  and  I  have 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  57 

made  him  feel  that  he  must  n't  leave  her  while  she  is 
here,"  Mrs.  Headway  said,  as  they  drove  up  the  nar- 
row Eue  de  Seine.  "Her  name  is  Lady  Demesne, 
but  her  full  title  is  the  Honorable  Lady  Demesne, 
as  she 's  a  Baron's  daughter.  Her  father  used  to  be 
a  banker,  but  he  did  something  or  other  for  the 
Government  —  the  Tories,  you  know,  they  call  them 
—  and  so  he  was  raised  to  the  peerage.  So  you  see 
one  can  be  raised !  She  has  a  lady  with  her  as  a 
companion."  Waterville's  neighbor  gave  him  this 
information  with  a  seriousness  that  made  him  smile; 
he  wondered  whether  she  thought  he  did  n't  know 
how  a  Baron's  daughter  was  addressed.  In  that  she 
was  very  provincial ;  she  had  a  way  of  exaggerating 
the  value  of  her  intellectual  acquisitions  and  of  as- 
suming that  others  had  been  as  ignorant  as  she.  He 
noted,  too,  that  she  had  ended  by  suppressing  poor 
Sir  Arthur's  name  altogether,  and  designating  him 
only  by  a  sort  of  conjugal  pronoun.  She  had  been 
so  much,  and  so  easily,  married,  that  she  was  full  of 
these  misleading  references  to  gentlemen. 


V. 


THEY  walked  through  the  gallery  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, and  except  that  Mrs.  Headway  looked  at 
everything  at  once  and  at  nothing  long  enough, 
talked,  as  usual,  rather  too  loud,  and  bestowed  too 

much  attention  on  the  bad  copies  that  were  being 

a* 


58  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

made  of  several  indifferent  pictures,  she  was  a  very 
agreeable  companion  and  a  grateful  recipient  of 
knowledge.  She  was  very  quick  to  understand,  and 
Waterville  was  sure  that  before  she  left  the  gallery 
she  knew  something  about  the  French  school.  She 
was  quite  prepared  to  compare  it  critically  with  Lon- 
don exhibitions  of  the  following  year.  As  Littlemore 
and  he  had  remarked  more  than  once,  she  was  a  very 
odd  mixture.  Her  conversation,  her  personality, 
were  full  of  little  joints  and  seams,  all  of  them  very 
visible,  where  the  old  and  the  new  had  been  pieced 
together.  When  they  had  passed  through  the  differ- 
ent rooms  of  the  palace  Mrs.  Headway  proposed  that 
instead  of  returning  directly  they  should  take  a  stroll 
in  the  adjoining  gardens,  which  she  wished  very  much 
to  see  and  was  sure  she  should  like.  She  had  quite 
seized  the  difference  between  the  old  Paris  and  the 
new,  and  felt  the  force  of  the  romantic  associations  of 
the  Latin  quarter  as  perfectly  as  if  she  had  enjoyed 
all  the  benefits  of  modern  culture.  The  autumn  sun 
was  warm  in  the  alleys  and  terraces  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg ;  the  masses  of  foliage  above  them,  clipped  and 
squared,  rusty  with  ruddy  patches,  shed  a  thick  lace- 
work  over  the  white  sky,  which  was  streaked  with 
the  palest  blue.  The  beds  of  flowers  near  the  palace 
were  of  the  vividest  yellow  and  red,  and  the  sunlight 
rested  on  the  smooth  gray  walls  of  those  parts  of  its 
basement  that  looked  south ;  in  front  of  which,  on 
the  long  green  benches,  a  -row  of  brown-cheeked 
nurses,  in  white  caps  and  white  aprons,  sat  offering 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  59 

nutrition  to  as  many  bundles  of  white  drapery. 
There  were  other  white  caps  wandering  in  the  broad 
paths,  attended  by  little  brown  French  children ;  the 
small,  straw-seated  chairs  were  piled  and  stacked  in 
some  places  and  disseminated  in  others.  An  old  lady 
in  black,  with  white  hair  fastened  over  each  of  her 
temples  by  a  large  black  comb,  sat  on  the  edge  of  a 
stone  bench  (too  high  for  her  delicate  length),  mo- 
tionless, staring  straight  before  her  and  holding  a  large 
door-key  ;  under  a  tree  a  priest  was  reading  —  you 
could  see  his  lips  move  at  a  distance ;  a  young  sol- 
dier, dwarfish  and  red-legged,  strolled  past  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  which  were  very  much  dis- 
tended. Waterville  sat  down  with  Mrs.  Headway  on 
the  straw-bottomed  chairs,  and  she  presently  said,  "  I 
like  this ;  it 's  even  better  than  the  pictures  in  the 
gallery.  It 's  more  of  a  picture." 

"Everything  in  France  is  a  picture  —  even  things 
that  are  ugly,"  Waterville  replied.  "  Everything 
makes  a  subject." 

"Well,  I  like  France!"  Mrs.  Headway  went  on, 
with  a  little  incongruous  sigh.  Then,  suddenly,  from 
an  impulse  even  more  inconsequent  than  her  sigh,  she 
added,  "  He  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her,  but  I  told 
him  I  would  n't.  She  may  come  and  see  me  if  she 
likes."  This  was  so  abrupt  that  Waterville  was 
slightly  confounded ;  but  he  speedily  perceived  that 
she  had  returned  by  a  short  cut  to  Sir  Arthur  De- 
mesne and  his  honorable  mother.  Waterville  liked 
to  know  about  other  people's  affairs,  but  he  did  not 


60  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

like  this  taste  to  be  imputed  to  him ;  and  therefore, 
though  he  was  curious  to  see  how  the  old  lady,  as  he 
called  her,  would  treat  his  companion,  he  was  rather 
displeased  with  the  latter  for  being  so  confidential. 
He  had  never  imagined  he  was  so  intimate  with  her 
as  that.  Mrs.  Headway,  however,  had  a  manner  of 
taking  intimacy  for  granted ;  a  manner  which  Sir  Ar- 
thur's mother  at  least  would  be  sure  not  to  like.  He 
pretended  to  wonder  a  little  what  she  was  talking 
about,  but  she  scarcely  explained.  She  only  went 
on,  through  untraceable  transitions  :  "  The  least  she 
can  do  is  to  come.  I  have  been  very  kind  to  her  son. 
That 's  not  a  reason  for  my  going  to  her  —  it 's  a  rea- 
son for  her  coming  to  me.  Besides,  if  she  does  n't 
like  what  I  've  done,  she  can  leave  me  alone.  I  want 
to  get  into  European  society,  but  I  want  to  get  in  in 
my  own  way.  I  don't  want  to  run  after  people ;  I 
want  them  to  run  after  me.  I  guess  they  will,  some 
day  !  "  Waterville  listened  to  this  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground  ;  he  felt  himself  blushing  a  little.  There 
was  something  in  Mrs.  Headway  that  shocked  and 
mortified  him,  and  Littlemore  had  been  right  in  say- 
ing that  she  had  a  deficiency  of  shading.  She  was 
terribly  distinct ;  her  motives,  her  impulses,  her  de- 
sires were  absolutely  glaring.  She  needed  to  see,  to 
hear,  her  own  thoughts.  Vehement  thought,  with 
Mrs.  Headway,  was  inevitably  speech,  though  speech 
was  not  always  thought,  and  now  she  had  suddenly 
become  vehement.  "  If  she  does  once  come  —  then, 
ah,  then,  I  shall  be  too  perfect  with  her ;  I  sha'n't  let 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  61 

her  go !     But  she  must  take  the  first  step.    I  confess, 
I  hope  she  '11  be  nice." 

"  Perhaps  she  won't,"  said  Waterville  perversely. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  she  isn't.  He  has  never 
told  me  anything  about  her  ;  never  a  word  about  any 
of  his  own  belongings.  If  I  wished,  I  might  believe 
he  's  ashamed  of  them." 

"I  don't  think  it's  that." 

"I  know  it  isn't.  I  know  what  it  is.  It's  just 
modesty.  He  does  n't  want  to  brag  —  he 's  too  much 
of  a  gentleman.  He  does  n't  want  to  dazzle  me  —  he 
wants  me  to  like  him  for  himself.  Well,  I  do  like 
him,"  she  added  in  a  moment.  "  But  I  shall  like  him 
still  better  if  he  brings  his  mother.  They  shall  know 
that  in  America." 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  make  an  impression  in 
America  ?  "  Waterville  asked,  smiling. 

"  It  will  show  them  that  I  am  visited  by  the  British 
aristocracy.  They  won't  like  that." 

"  Surely  they  grudge  you  no  innocent  pleasure," 
Waterville  murmured,  smiling  still. 

"  They  grudged  me  common  politeness  —  when  I 
was  in  New  York !  Did  you  ever  hear  how  they 
treated  me,  when  I  came  on  from  the  West  ? " 

Waterville  stared ;  this  episode  was  quite  new  to 
him.  His  companion  had  turned  towards  him ;  her 
pretty  head  was  tossed  back  like  a  flower  in  the 
wind ;  there  was  a  flush  in  her  cheek,  a  sharper  light 
in  her  eye.  "  Ah  !  my  dear  New  Yorkers,  they  're  in- 
capable of  rudeness  !  "  cried  the  young  man. 


62  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  You  're  one  of  them,  I  see.  But  I  don't  speak  of 
the  men.  The  men  were  well  enough  —  though  they 
did  allow  it." 

"  Allow  what,  Mrs.  Headway  ? "  Waterville  was 
quite  in  the  dark. 

She  would  n't  answer  at  once ;  her  eyes,  glittering 
a  little,  were  fixed  upon  absent  images.  "  What  did 
you  hear  about  me  over  there  ?  Don't  pretend  you 
heard  nothing." 

He  had  heard  nothing  at  all ;  there  had  not  been  a 
word  about  Mrs.  Headway  in  New  York.  He  could  n't 
pretend,  and  he  was  obliged  to  tell  her  this.  "  But 
I  have  been  away,"  he  added,  "  and  in  America  I 
did  n't  go  out.  There 's  nothing  to  go  out  for  in  New 
York  —  only  little  boys  and  girls." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  old  women  !  They  decided  I 
was  improper.  I  'm  very  well  known  in  the  West  — 
I  'm  known  from  Chicago  to  San  Francisco  —  if  not 
personally  (in  all  cases),  at  least  by  reputation.  Peo- 
ple can  tell  you  out  there.  In  New  York  they  de- 
cided I  was  n't  good  enough.  Not  good  enough  for 
New  York  !  What  do  you  say  to  that  ? "  And  she 
gave  a  sweet  little  laugh.  Whether  she  had  strug- 
gled with  her  pride  before  making  this  avowal,  Wa- 
terville never  knew.  The  crudity  of  the  avowal 
seemed  to  indicate  that  she  had  no  pride,  and  yet 
there  was  a  spot  in  her  heart  which,  as  he  now 
perceived,  was  intensely  sore  and  had  suddenly  be- 
gun to  throb.  "  I  took  a  house  for  the  winter  —  one 
of  the  handsomest  houses  in  the  place  —  but  I  sat 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  63 

there  all  alone.  They  did  n't  think  me  proper.  Such 
as  you  see  me  here,  I  was  n't  a  success  !  I  tell  you 
the  truth,  at  whatever  cost.  Not  a  decent  woman 
came  to  see  me  ! " 

Waterville  was  embarrassed ;  diplomatist  as  he  was, 
he  hardly  knew  what  line  to  take.  He  could  not  see 
what  need  there  was  of  her  telling  him  the  truth, 
though  the  incident  appeared  to  have  been  most  curi- 
ous, and  he  was  glad  to  know  the  facts  on  the  best 
authority.  It  was  the  first  he  knew  of  this  remark- 
able woman's  having  spent  a  winter  in  his  native  city 
—  which  was  virtually  a  proof  of  her  having  come 
and  gone  in  complete  obscurity.  It  was  vain  for  him 
to  pretend  that  he  had  been  a  good  deal  away,  for  he 
had  been  appointed  to  his  post  in  London  only  six 
months  before,  and  Mrs.  Headway's  social  failure  pre- 
ceded that  event.  In  the  midst  of  these  reflections 
he  had  an  inspiration.  He  attempted  neither  to  ex- 
plain, to  minimize,  nor  to  apologize ;  he  ventured 
simply  to  lay  his  hand  for  an  instant  on  her  own  and 
to  exclaim,  as  tenderly  as  possible,  "  I  wish  /  had 
known  you  were  there  !  " 

"  I  had  plenty  of  men  —  but  men  don't  count.  If 
they  are  not  a  positive  help,  they're  a  hinderance, 
and  the  more  you  have,  the  worse  it  looks.  The 
women  simply  turned  their  backs." 

"  They  were  afraid  of  you  —  they  were  jealous," 
Waterville  said. 

"  It 's  very  good  of  you  to  try  and  explain  it  away ; 
all  I  know  is,  not  one  of  them  crossed  my  threshold. 


64  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

You  need  n't  try  and  tone  it  down ;  I  know  perfectly 
how  the  case  stands.  In  New  York,  if  you  please,  I 
was  a  failure  ! " 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  New  York  ! "  cried  Water- 
ville, who,  as  he  afterwards  said  to  Littlemore,  had 
got  quite  worked  up. 

"And  now  you  know  why  I  want  to  get  into 
society  over  here  ? "  She  jumped  up  and  stood  before 
him ;  with  a  dry,  hard  smile  she  looked  down  at  him. 
Her  smile  itself  was  an  answer  to  her  question ;  it  ex- 
pressed an  urgent  desire  for  revenge.  There  was  an 
abruptness  in  her  movements  which  left  Waterville 
quite  behind ;  but  as  he  still  sat  there,  returning  her 
glance,  he  felt  that  he  at  last,  in  the  light  of  that 
smile,  the  flash  of  that  almost  fierce  question,  under- 
stood Mrs.  Headway. 

She  turned  away,  to  walk  to  the  gate  of  the  garden, 
and  he  went  with  her,  laughing  vaguely,  uneasily,  at 
her  tragic  tone.  Of  course  she  expected  him  to  help 
her  to  her  revenge;  but  his  female  relations,  his 
mother  and  his  sisters,  his  innumerable  cousins,  had 
been  a  party  to  the  slight  she  suffered,  and  he  reflected 
as  he  walked  along  that  after  all  they  had  been  right. 
They  had  been  right  in  not  going  to  see  a  woman  who 
could  chatter  that  way  about  her  social  wrongs; 
whether  Mrs.  Headway  were  respectable  or  not,  they 
had  a  correct  instinct,  for  at  any  rate  she  was  vulgar. 
European  society  might  let  her  in,  but  European 
society  would  be  wrong.  New  York,  Waterville  said 
to  himself  with  a  glow  of  civic  pride,  was  quite 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  65 

capable  of  taking  a  higher  stand  in  such  a  matter  than 
London.  They  went  some  distance  without  speaking ; 
at  last  he  said,  expressing  honestly  the  thought  which 
at  that  moment  was  uppermost  in  his  mind,  "  I  hate 
that  phrase,  'getting  into  society.'  I  don't  think 
one  ought  to  attribute  to  one's  self  that  sort  of  am- 
bition. One  ought  to  assume  that  one  is  in  society 
—  that  one  is  society  —  and  to  hold  that  if  one  has 
good  manners,  one  has,  from  the  social  point  of 
view,  achieved  the  great  thing.  The  rest  regards 
others." 

For  a  moment  she  appeared  not  to  understand; 
then  she  broke  out :  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  have  n't  good 
manners  ;  at  any  rate,  1 7m  not  satisfied  !  Of  course,  I 
don't  talk  right  —  I  know  that  very  well.  But  let  me 
get  where  I  want  to  first  —  then  I  '11  look  after  my 
expressions.  If  I  once  get  there,  I  shall  be  perfect ! " 
she  cried  with  a  tremor  of  passion.  They  reached  the 
gate  of  the  garden  and  stood  a  moment  outside, 
opposite  to  the  low  arcade  of  the  Odeon,  lined  with 
bookstalls  at  which  Waterville  cast  a  slightly  wistful 
glance,  waiting  for  Mrs.  Headway's  carriage,  which 
had  drawn  up  at  a  short  distance.  The  whiskered 
Max  had  seated  himself  within,  and  on  the  tense, 
elastic  cushions  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  The  carriage 
got  into  motion  without  his  awaking ;  he  came  to  his 
senses  only  as  it  stopped  again.  He  started  up, 
staring;  then,  without  confusion,  he  proceeded  to 
descend. 

"  I  have  learned  it  in  Italy  —  they  say  the  siesta" 


66  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

he  remarked  with  an  agreeable  sinile,  holding  the 
door  open  to  Mrs.  Headway. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  had  ! "  this  lady  replied, 
laughing  amicably  as  she  got  into  the  vehicle,  whither 
Waterville  followed  her.  It  was  not  a  surprise  to  him 
to  perceive  that  she  spoiled  her  courier  ;  she  naturally 
would  spoil  her  courier.  But  civilization  begins  at 
home,  said  Waterville;  and  the  incident  threw  an 
ironical  light  upon  her  desire  to  get  into  society.  It 
failed,  however,  to  divert  her  thoughts  from  the  sub- 
ject she  was  discussing  with  Waterville,  for  as  Max 
ascended  the  box  and  the  carriage  went  on  its  way, 
she  threw  out  another  little  note  of  defiance.  "If 
once  I  'm  all  right  over  here,  I  can  snap  my  fingers  at 
New  York !  You  '11  see  the  faces  those  women  will 
make." 

Waterville  was  sure  his  mother  and  sisters  would 
make  no  faces  ;  but  he  felt  afresh,  as  the  carriage 
rolled  back  to  the  Hotel  Meurice,  that  now  he  under- 
stood Mrs.  Headway.  As  they  were  about  to  enter 
the  court  of  the  hotel  a  closed  carriage  passed  before 
them,  and  while  a  few  moments  later  he  helped  his 
companion  to  alight,  he  saw  that  Sir  Arthur  Demesne 
had  descended  from  the  other  vehicle.  Sir  Arthur 
perceived  Mrs.  Headway,  and  instantly  gave  his  hand 
to  a  lady  seated  in  the  coup&  This  lady  emerged  with 
a  certain  slow  iinpressiveness,  and  as  she  stood  before 
the  door  of  the  hotel  —  a  woman  still  young  and  fair, 
with  a  good  deal  of  height,  gentle,  tranquil,  plainly 
dressed,  yet  distinctly  imposing  —  Waterville  saw  that 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  67 

the  baronet  had  brought  his  mother  to  call  upon  Nancy 
Beck.  Mrs.  Headway's  triumph  had  begun;  the 
Dowager  Lady  Demesne  had  taken  the  first  step. 
Waterville  wondered  whether  the  ladies  in  New  York, 
notified  by  some  magnetic  wave,  were  distorting  their 
features.  Mrs.  Headway,  quickly  conscious  of  what 
had  happened,  was  neither  too  prompt  to  appropriate 
the  visit,  nor  too  slow  to  acknowledge  it.  She  just 
paused,  smiling  at  Sir  Arthur. 

"  I  wish  to  introduce  my  mother  —  she  wants  very 
much  to  know  you."  He  approached  Mrs.  Headway; 
the  lady  had  taken  his  arm.  She  was  at  once  simple 
and  circumspect;  she  had  all  the  resources  of  an 
English  matron. 

Mrs.  Headway,  without  advancing  a  step,  put  out 
her  hands  as  if  to  draw  her  visitor  quickly  closer.  "  I 
declare,  you  're  too  sweet !  "  Waterville  heard  her  say. 

He  was  turning  away,  as  his  own  business  was 
over ;  but  the  young  Englishman,  who  had  surrend- 
ered his  mother  to  the  embrace,  as  it  might  now 
almost  be  called,  of  their  hostess,  just  checked  him 
with  a  friendly  gesture.  "I  daresay  I  sha'n't  see 
you  again — I'm  going  away." 

"  Good-by,  then,"  said  Waterville.  "  You  return  to 
England  ? " 

"  No ;  I  go  to  Cannes  with  my  mother." 

"  You  remain  at  Cannes  ? " 

"  Till  Christmas  very  likely." 

The  ladies,  escorted  by  Mr.  Max,  had  passed  into 
the  hotel,  and  Waterville  presently  quitted  his  inter- 


68  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

locutor.  He  smiled  as  he  walked  away  reflecting 
that  this  personage  had  obtained  a  concession  from 
his  mother  only  at  the  price  of  a  concession. 

The  next  morning  he  went  to  see  Littlemore,  from 
whom  he  had  a  standing  invitation  to  breakfast,  and 
who,  as  usual,  was  smoking  a  cigar  and  looking 
through  a  dozen  newspapers.  Littlemore  had  a  large 
apartment  and  an  accomplished  cook ;  he  got  up  late 
and  wandered  about  his  room  all  the  morning,  stop- 
ping from  time  to  time  to  look  out  of  his  windows 
which  overhung  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine.  They 
had  not  been  seated  many  minutes  at  breakfast  when 
Waterville  announced  that  Mrs.  Headway  was  about 
to  be  abandoned  by  Sir  Arthur,  who  was  going  to 
Cannes. 

"  That 's  no  news  to  me,"  Littlemore  said.  "  He 
came  last  night  to  bid  me  good-by." 

"  To  bid  you  good-by  ?  He  was  very  civil  all  of  a 
sudden." 

"He  didn't  come  from  civility  —  he  came  from 
curiosity.  Having  dined  here,  he  had  a  pretext  for 
calling." 

"  I  hope  his  curiosity  was  satisfied,"  Waterville 
remarked,  in  the  manner  of  a  person  who  could  enter 
into  such  a  sentiment. 

Littlemore  hesitated.  "  Well,  I  suspect  not.  He 
sat  here  some  time,  but  we  talked  about  everything 
but  what  he  wanted  to  know." 

"  And  what  did  he  want  to  know  ? " 

"  Whether  I  know  anything  against  Nancy  Beck." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  69 

Waterville  stared.  "Did  he  call  her  Nancy 
Beck?" 

"We  never  mentioned  her;  but  I  saw  what  he 
wanted,  and  that  he  wanted  me  to  lead  up  to  her  — 
only  I  would  n't  do  it." 

"  Ah,  poor  man  ! "  Waterville  murmured. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  pity  him,"  said  Littlemore. 
"  Mrs.  Beck's  admirers  were  never  pitied." 

"  Well,  of  course  he  wants  to  marry  her." 

"Let  him  do  it,  then.  I  have  nothing  to  say 
to  it." 

"  He  believes  there  's  something  in  her  past  that 's 
hard  to  swallow." 

"  Let  him  leave  it  alone,  then." 

"  How  can  he,  if  he 's  in  love  with  her  ? "  Water- 
ville asked,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  could  enter 
into  that  sentiment  too. 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  he  must  settle  it  himself. 
He  has  no  right,  at  any  rate,  to  ask  me  such  a  ques- 
tion. There  was  a  moment,  just  as  he  was  going, 
when  he  had  it  on  his  tongue's  end.  He  stood  there 
in  the  doorway,  he  could  n't  leave  me  —  he  was  go- 
ing to  plump  out  with  it.  He  looked  at  me  straight, 
and  I  looked  straight  at  him  ;  we  remained  that  way 
for  almost  a  minute.  Then  he  decided  to  hold  his 
tongue,  and  took  himself  off." 

Waterville  listened  to  this  little  description  with 
intense  interest.  "  And  if  he  had  asked  you,  what 
would  you  have  said  ? " 

"What  do  you  think?" 


70  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  would  have  said  that  his 
question  was  n't  fair  ?" 

"That  would  have  been  tantamount  to  admitting 
the  worst." 

"Yes,"  said  Waterville,  thoughtfully,  "you  could  n't 
do  that.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  had  put  it  to  you 
on  your  honor  whether  she  were  a  woman  to  marry, 
it  would  have  been  very  awkward." 

"  Awkward  enough.  Fortunately,  he  has  no  busi- 
ness to  put  things  to  me  on  my  honor.  Moreover, 
nothing  has  passed  between  us  to  give  him  the  right 
to  ask  me  questions  about  Mrs.  Headway.  As  she  is 
a  great  friend  of  mine,  he  can't  pretend  to  expect  me 
to  give  confidential  information  about  her." 

"  You  don't  think  she  's  a  woman  to  marry,  all  the 
same,"  Waterville  declared.  "  And  if  a  man  were  to 
ask  you  that,  you  might  knock  him  down,  but  it 
would  n't  be  an  answer." 

"It  would  have  to  serve,"  said  Littlemore.  He 
added  in  a  moment,  "  There  are  certain  cases  where 
it's  a  man's  duty  to  commit  perjury." 

Waterville  looked  grave.     "  Certain  cases  ? " 

"Where  a  woman's  honor  is  at  stake." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean.  That 's  of  course  if  he 
has  been  himself  concerned  —  " 

"  Himself  or  another.     It  does  n't  matter." 

"I  think  it  does  matter.  I  don't  like  perjury," 
said  Waterville.  "  It 's  a  delicate  question." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  ser- 
vant with  a  second  course,  and  Littlemore  gave  a 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  71 

laugh  as  he  helped  himself.     "  It  would  be  a  joke  to 

see  her  married  to  that  superior  being!" 
"  It  would  be  a  great  responsibility." 
"  Eesponsibility  or  not,  it  would  be  very  amusing." 
"  Do  you  mean  to  assist  her,  then  ? " 
"  Heaven  forbid  !     But  I  mean  to  bet  on  her." 
Water ville  gave  his  companion  a  serious  glance ; 

he  thought  him  strangely  superficial.     The  situation, 

however,  was  difficult,  and  he  laid  down  his  fork 

with  a  little  sigh. 


72  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 


PART  II. 


VI. 


THE  Easter  holidays  that  year  were  unusually 
genial ;  mild,  watery  sunshine  assisted  the  progress 
of  the  spring.  The  high,  dense  hedges,  in  "Warwick- 
shire, were  like  walls  of  hawthorn  imbedded  in  banks 
of  primrose,  and  the  finest  trees  in  England,  spring- 
ing out  of  them  with  a  regularity  which  suggested 
conservative  principles,  began  to  cover  themselves 
with  a  kind  of  green  downiness.  Rupert  Waterville, 
devoted  to  his  duties  and  faithful  in  attendance  at 
the  Legation,  had  had  little  time  to  enjoy  that  rural 
hospitality  which  is  the  great  invention  of  the 
English  people  and  the  most  perfect  expression  of 
their  character.  He  had  been  invited  now  and  then 
—  for  in  London  he  commended  himself  to  many 
people  as  a  very  sensible  young  man — but  he  had 
been  obliged  to  decline  more  proposals  than  he 
accepted.  It  was  still,  therefore,  rather  a  novelty  to 
him  to  stay  at  one  of  those  fine  old  houses,  surrounded 
with  hereditary  acres,  which  from  the  first  of  his 
coming  to  England  he  had  thought  of  with  such 
cariosity  and  such  envy.  He  proposed  to  himself 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  73 

to  see  as  many  of  them  as  possible,  but  he  disliked 
to  do  things  in  a  hurry,  or  when  his  mind  was 
preoccupied,  as  it  was  so  apt  to  be,  with  what  he 
believed  to  be  business,  of  importance.  He  kept  the 
country-houses  in  reserve ;  he  would  take  them  up  in 
their  order,  after  he  should  have  got  a  little  more 
used  to  London.  Without  hesitation,  however,  he 
had  accepted  the  invitation  to  Longlands;  it  had 
come  to  him  in  a  simple  and  familiar  note,  from 
Lady  Demesne,  with  whom  he  had  no  acquaintance. 
He  knew  of  her  return  from  Cannes,  where  she  had 
spent  the  whole  winter,  for  he  had  seen  it  related 
in  a  Sunday  newspaper;  yet  it  was  with  a  certain 
surprise  that  he  heard  from  her  in  these  informal 
terms.  "  Dear  Mr.  Waterville,"  she  wrote,  "  my  son 
tells  me  that  you  will  perhaps  be  able  to  come  down 
here  on  the  17th,  to  spend  two  or  three  days.  If 
you  can,  it  will  give  us  much  pleasure.  We  can 
promise  you  the  society  of  your  charming  country- 
woman, Mrs.  Headway." 

He  had  seen  Mrs.  Headway ;  she  had  written  to 
him  a  fortnight  before  from  an  hotel  in  Cork  Street, 
to  say  that  she  had  arrived  in  London  for  the  season 
and  should  be  very  glad  to  see  him.  He  had  gone 
to  see  her,  trembling  with  the  fear  that  she  would 
break  ground  about  her  presentation;  but  he  was 
agreeably  surprised  to  observe  that  she-  neglected 
this  topic.  She  had  spent  the  winter  in  Eome,  trav- 
elling directly  from  that  city  to  England,  with  just 
a  little  stop  in  Paris,  to  buy  a  few  clothes.  She 

4 


74  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

had  taken  much  satisfaction  in  Kome,  where  she 
made  many  friends ;  she  assured  him  that  she  knew 
half  the  Eoman  nobility.  "  They  are  charming  peo- 
ple ;  they  have  only  one  fault,  they  stay  too  long," 
she  said.  And,  in  answer  to  his  inquiring  glance, 
"  I  mean  when  they  come  to  see  you,"  she  explained. 
"  They  used  to  come  every  evening,  and  they  wanted 
to  stay  till  the  next  day.  They  were  all  princes 
and  counts.  I  used  to  give  them  cigars,  &c.  I  knew 
as  many  people  as  I  wanted,"  she  added,  in  a  mo- 
ment, discovering  perhaps  in  Waterville's  eye  the 
traces  of  that  sympathy  with  which  six  months 
before  he  had  listened  to  her  account  of  her  discom- 
fiture in  New  York.  "  There  were  lots  of  English  ; 
I  knew  all  the  English,  and  I  mean  to  visit  them 
here.  The  Americans  waited  to  see  what  the  English 
would  do,  so  as  to  do  the  opposite.  Thanks  to  that,  I 
was  spared  some  precious  specimens.  There  are,  you 
know,  some  fearful  ones.  Besides,  in  Borne,  society 
does  n't  matter,  if  you  have  a  feeling  for  the  ruins  and 
the  Campagna;  I  had  an  immense  feeling  for  the 
Campagna.  I  was  always  mooning  round  in  some 
damp  old  temple.  It  reminded  me  a  good  deal  of 
the  country  round  San  Diego — if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  temples.  I  liked  to  think  it  all  over,  when  I 
was  driving  round  ;  I  was  always  brooding  over  the 
past."  At  this  moment,  however,  Mrs.  Headway  had 
dismissed  the  past ;  she  was  prepared  to  give  herself 
up  wholly  to  the  actual.  She  wished  Waterville  to 
advise  her  as  to  how  she  should  live — what  she 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  75 

should  do.  Should  she  stay  at  a  hotel  or  should  she 
take  a  house  ?  She  guessed  she  had  better  take  a 
house,  if  she  could  find  a  nice  one.  Max  wanted 
to  look  for  one,  and  she  did  n't  know  but  she  'd  let 
him  ;  he  got  her  such  a  nice  one  in  Rome.  She  said 
nothing  about  Sir  Arthur  Demesne,  who,  it  seemed 
to  Waterville,  would  have  been  her  natural  guide 
and  sponsor;  he  wondered  whether  her  relations 
with  the  baronet  had  come  to  an  end.  Waterville 
had  met  him  a  couple  of  times  since  the  opening  of 
Parliament,  and  they  had  exchanged  twenty  words, 
none  of  which,  however,  had  reference  to  Mrs.  Head- 
way. Waterville  had  been  recalled  to  London  just 
after  the  incident  of  which  he  was  witness  in  the 
court  of  the  Hotel  Meurice ;  and  all  he  knew  of  its 
consequence  was  what  he  had  learned  from  Little- 
more,  who,  on  his  way  back  to  America,  where  he 
had  suddenly  ascertained  that  there  were  reasons  for 
his  spending  the  winter,  passed  through  the  British 
capital.  Littlemore  had  reported  that  Mrs.  Head- 
way was  enchanted  with  Lady  Demesne,  and  had  no 
words  to  speak  of  her  kindness  and  sweetness.  "She 
told  me  she  liked  to  know  her  son's  friends,  and  I 
told  her  I  liked  to  know  my  friends'  mothers,"  Mrs. 
Headway  had  related.  "  I  should  be  willing  to  be 
old  if  I  could  be  like  that,"  she  had  added,  oblivious 
for  the  moment  that  she  was  at  least  as  near  to  the 
age  of  the  mother  as  to  that  of  the  son.  The  mother 
and  son,  at  any  rate,  had  retired  to  Cannes  together, 
and  at  this  moment  Littlemore  had  received  letters 


76  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

from  home  which  caused  him  to  start  for  Arizona. 
Mrs.  Headway  had  accordingly  been  left  to  her  own 
devices,  and  he  was  afraid  she  had  bored  herself, 
though  Mrs.  Bagshaw  had  called  upon  her.  In 
November  she  had  travelled  to  Italy,  not  by  way  of 
Cannes. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  she  '11  do  in  Borne  ? " 
Waterville  had  asked;  his  imagination  failing  him 
here,  for  he  had  not  yet  trodden  the  Seven  Hills. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  And  I  don't  care!" 
Littlemore  added  in  a  moment.  Before  he  left  Lon- 
don he  mentioned  to  Waterville  that  Mrs.  Headway, 
on  his  going  to  take  leave  of  her  in  Paris,  had  made 
another,  and  a  rather  unexpected,  attack.  "About 
the  society  business  —  she  said  I  must  really  do 
something  —  she  could  n't  go  on  in  that  way.  And 
she  appealed  to  me  in  the  name  —  I  don't  think  I 
quite  know  how  to  say  it." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  try,"  said 
Waterville,  who  was  constantly  reminding  himself 
that  Americans  in  Europe  were,  after  all,  in  a  man- 
ner, to  a  man  in  his  position,  as  the  sheep  to  the 
shepherd. 

"  Well,  in  the  name  of  the  affection  that  we  had 
formerly  entertained  for  each  other." 

"  The  affection  ? " 

"  So  she  was  good  enough  to  call  it.  But  I  deny 
it  all.  If  one  had  to  have  an  affection  for  every 
woman  one  used  to  sit  up  '  evenings '  with —  ! "  And 
Littlemore  paused,  not  defining  the  result  of  such  an 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  77 

obligation.  Waterville  tried  to  imagine  what  it 
would  be ;  while  his  friend  embarked  for  New  York, 
without  telling  him  how,  after  all,  he  had  resisted 
Mrs.  Headway's  attack. 

At  Christmas,  Waterville  knew  of  Sir  Arthur's 
return  to  England,  and  believed  that  he  also  knew 
that  the  baronet  had  not  gone  down  to  Rome.  He 
had  a  theory  that  Lady  Demesne  was  a  very  clever 
woman  —  clever  enough  to  make  her  son  do  what  she 
preferred  and  yet  also  make  him  think  it  his  own 
choice.  She  had  been  politic,  accommodating,  about 
going  to  see  Mrs.  Headway;  bnt,  having  seen  her 
and  judged  her,  she  had  determined  to  break  the 
thing  off.  She  had  been  sweet  and  kind,  as  Mrs. 
Headway  said,  because  for  the  moment  that  was 
easiest ;  but  she  had  made  her  last  visit  on  the  same 
occasion  as  her  first.  She  had  been  sweet  and  kind, 
but  she  had  set  her  face  as  a  stone,  and  if  poor  Mrs. 
Headway,  arriving  in  London  for  the  season,  expected 
to  find  any  vague  promises  redeemed,  she  would  taste 
of  the  bitterness  of  shattered  hopes.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  that,  shepherd  as  he  was,  and  Mrs. 
Headway  one  of  his  sheep,  it  was  none  of  his  present 
duty  to  run  about  after  her,  especially  as  she  could 
be  trusted  not  to  stray  too  far.  He  saw  her  a  second 
time,  and  she  still  said  nothing  about  Sir  Arthur. 
Waterville,  who  always  had  a  theory,  said  to  himself 
that  she  was  waiting,  that  the  baronet  had  not  turned 
up.  She  was  also  getting  into  a  house  ;  the  courier 
had  found  her  in  Chesterfield  Street,  Mayfair,  a  little 


78  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

gem,  which  was  to  cost  her  what  jewels  cost.  After 
all  this,  Waterville  was  greatly  surprised  at  Lady 
Demesne's  note,  and  he  went  down  to  Longlands 
with  much  the  same  impatience  with  which,  in  Paris, 
he  would  have  gone,  if  he  had  been  able,  to  the  first 
night  of  a  new  comedy.  It  seemed  to  him  that, 
through  a  sudden  stroke  of  good  fortune,  he  had 
received  a  billet  d'auteur. 

It  was  agreeable  to  him  to  arrive  at  an  English 
country-house  at  the  close  of  the  day.  He  liked  the 
drive  from  the  station  in  the  twilight,  the  sight  of  the 
fields  and  copses  and  cottages,  vague  and  lonely  in 
contrast  to  his  definite,  lighted  goal ;  the  sound  of  the 
wheels  on  the  long  avenue,  which  turned  and  wound 
repeatedly  without  bringing  him  to  what  he  reached 
however  at  last  —  the  wide,  gray  front,  with  a  glow 
in  its  scattered  windows  and  a  sweep  of  still  firmer 
gravel  up  to  the  door.  The  front  at  Longlands,  which 
was  of  this  sober  complexion,  had  a  grand,  pompous 
air;  it  was  attributed  to  the  genius  of  Sir  Chris- 
topher Wren.  There  were  wings  which  came  for- 
ward in  a  semicircle,  with  statues  placed  at  intervals 
on  the  cornice ;  so  that  in  the  flattering  dusk  it  looked 
like  an  Italian  palace,  erected  through  some  magical 
evocation  in  an  English  park.  Waterville  had  taken 
a  late  train,  which  left  him  but  twenty  minutes  to 
dress  for  dinner.  He  prided  himself  considerably  on 
the  art  of  dressing  both  quickly  and  well ;  but  this 
operation  left  him  no  time  to  inquire  whether  the 
apartment  to  which  he  had  been  assigned  befitted 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  79 

the  dignity  of  a  Secretary  of  Legation.  On  emerg- 
ing from  his  room  he  found  there  was  an  ambassador 
in  the  house,  and  this  discovery  was  a  check  to  un- 
easy reflections.  He  tacitly  assumed  that  he  would 
have  had  a  better  room  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
ambassador,  who  was  of  course  counted  first.  The 
large,  brilliant  house  gave  an  impression  of  the  last 
century  and  of  foreign  taste,  of  light  colors,  high, 
vaulted  ceilings,  with  pale  mythological  frescos, 
gilded  doors,  surmounted  by  old  French  panels,  faded 
tapestries  and  delicate  damasks,  stores  of  ancient 
china, 'among  which  great  jars  of  pink  roses  were  con- 
spicuous. The  people  in  the  house  had  assembled 
for  dinner  in  the  principal  hall,  which  was  animated 
by  a  fire  of  great  logs,  and  the  company  was  so 
numerous  that  Waterville  was  afraid  he  was  the  last. 
Lady  Demesne  gave  him  a  smile  and  a  touch  of  her 
hand ;  she  was  very  tranquil,  and,  saying  nothing  in 
particular,  treated  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  constant 
visitor.  Waterville  was  not  sure  whether  he  liked 
this  or  hated  'it ;  but  these  alternatives  mattered 
equally  little  to  his  hostess,  who  looked  at  her  guests 
as  if  to  see  whether  the  number  were  right.  The 
master  of  the  house  was  talking  to  a  lady  before  the 
fire ;  when  he  caught  sight  of  Waterville  across  the 
room,  he  waved  him  "  how  d'  ye  do,"  with  an  air  of 
being  delighted  to  see  him.  He  had  never"  had  that 
air  in  Paris,  and  Waterville  had  a  chance  to  observe, 
what  he  had  often  heard,  to  how  much  greater  advan- 
tage the  English  appear  in  their  country  houses. 


80  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

Lady  Demesne  turned  to  him  again,  with  her  sweet 
vague  smile,  which  looked  as  if  it  were  the  same  for 
everything. 

"  We  are  waiting  for  Mrs.  Headway,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  she  has  arrived  ? "  Waterville  had  quite 
forgotten  her. 

"  She  came  at  half-past  five.  At  six  she  went  to 
dress.  She  has  had  two  hours." 

"  Let  us  hope  that  the  results  will  be  proportionate," 
said  Waterville,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  the  results ;  I  don't  know,"  Lady  Demesne 
murmured,  without  looking  at  him ;  and  in  these  sim- 
ple words  Waterville  saw  the  confirmation  of  his  the- 
ory that  she  was  playing  a  deep  game.  He  wondered 
whether  he  should  sit  next  to  Mrs.  Headway  at  din- 
ner, and  hoped,  with  due  deference  to  this  lady's 
charms,  that  he  should  have  something  more  novel. 
The  results  of  a  toilet  which  she  had  protracted 
through  two  hours  were  presently  visible.  She  ap- 
peared on  the  staircase  which  descended  to  the  hall, 
and  which,  for  three  minutes,  as  she  came  down 
rather  slowly,  facing  the  people  beneath,  placed  her 
in  considerable  relief.  Waterville,  as  he  looked  at 
her,  felt  that  this  was  a  moment  of  importance  for 
her :  it  was  virtually  her  entrance  into  English  soci- 
ety. Mrs.  Headway  entered  English  society  very 
well,  with  her  charming  smile  upon  her  lips  and  with 
the  trophies  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  trailing  behind 
her.  She  made  a  portentous  rustling  as  she  moved. 
People  turned  their  eyes  toward  her ;  there  was  soon 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  81 

a  perceptible  diminution  of  talk,  though  talk  had  not 
been  particularly  audible.  She  looked  very  much 
alone,  and  it  was  rather  pretentious  of  her  to  come 
down  last,  though  it  was  possible  that  this  was  simply 
because,  before  her  glass,  she  had  been  unable  to 
please  herself.  For  she  evidently  felt  the  importance 
of  the  occasion,  and  Waterville  was  sure  that  her 
heart  was  beating.  She  was  very  valiant,  however ; 
she  smiled  more  intensely,  and  advanced  like  a 
woman  who  was  used  to  being  looked  at.  She  had  at 
any  rate  the  support  of  knowing  that  she  was  pretty ; 
for  nothing  on  this  occasion  was  wanting  to  her  pret- 
tiness,  and  the  determination  to  succeed,  which  might 
have  made  her  hard,  was  veiled  in  the  virtuous  con- 
sciousness that  she  had  neglected  nothing.  Lady 
Demesne  went  forward  to  meet  her ;  Sir  Arthur  took 
no  notice  of  her ;  and  presently  Waterville  found 
himself  proceeding  to  dinner  with  the  wife  of  an  ec- 
clesiastic, to  whom  Lady  Demesne  had  presented  him 
for  this  purpose  when  the  hall  was  almost  empty. 
The  rank  of  this  ecclesiastic  in  the  hierarchy  he 
learned  early  on  the  morrow ;  but  in  the  mean  time 
it  seemed  to  him  strange,  somehow,  that  in  England 
ecclesiastics  should  have  wives.  English  life,  even  at 
the  end  of  a  year,  was  full  of  those  surprises.  The 
lady,  however,  was  very  easily  accounted  for ;  she 
was  in  no  sense  a  violent  exception,  and  there  had 
been  no  need  of  the  Reformation  to  produce  her. 
Her  name  was  Mrs.  April;  she  was  wrapped  in  a 
large  lace  shawl ;  to  eat  her  dinner  she  removed  but  • 

4* 


82  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

one  glove,  and  the  other  gave  Waterville  at  moments 
an  odd  impression  that  the  whole  repast,  in  spite  of 
its  great  completeness,  was  something  of  the  picnic 
order.  Mrs.  Headway  was  opposite,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance ;  she  had  been  taken  in,  as  Waterville  learned 
from  his  neighbor,  by  a  general,  a  gentleman  with  a 
lean,  aquiline  face  and  a  cultivated  whisker,  and  she 
had  on  the  other  side  a  smart  young  man  of  an  identity 
less  definite.  Poor  Sir  Arthur  sat  between  two  ladies 
much  older  than  himself,  whose  names,  redolent  of 
history,  Waterville  had  often  heard,  and  had  associ- 
ated with  figures  more  romantic.  Mrs.  Headway 
gave  Waterville  no  greeting ;  she  evidently  had  not 
seen  him  till  they  were  seated  at  table,  when  she 
simply  stared  at  him  with  a  violence  of  surprise  that 
for  a  moment  almost  effaced  her  smile.  It  was  a 
copious  and  well-ordered  banquet,  but  as  Waterville 
looked  up  and  down  the  table  he  wondered  whether 
some  of  its  elements  might  not  be  a  little  dull.  As 
he  made  this  reflection  he  became  conscious  that  he 
was  judging  the  affair  much  more  from  Mrs.  Head- 
way's point  of  view  than  from  his  own.  He  knew  no 
one  but  Mrs.  April,  who,  displaying  an  almost  moth- 
erly desire  to  give  him  information,  told  him  the 
names  of  many  of  their  companions;  in  return  for 
which  he  explained  to  her  that  he  was  not  in  that  set. 
Mrs.  Headway  got  on  in  perfection  with  her  gen- 
eral ;  Waterville  watched  her  more  than  he  appeared 
to  do,  and  saw  that  the  general,  who  evidently 
was  a  cool  hand,  was  drawing  her  out.  Water- 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  83 

ville  hoped  she  would  be  careful.  He  was  a  man 
of  fancy,  in  his  way,  and  as  he  compared  her  with  the 
rest  of  the  company  he  said  to  himself  that  she  was  a 
very  plucky  little  woman,  and  that  her  present  under- 
taking had  a  touch  of  the  heroic.  She  was  alone 
against  many,  and  her  opponents  were  a  very  serried 
phalanx ;  those  who  were  there  represented  a  thou- 
sand others.  They  looked  so  different  from  her  that 
to  the  eye  of  the  imagination  she  stood  very  much  on 
her  merits.  All  those  people  seemed  so  completely 
made  up,  so  unconscious  of  effort,  so  surrounded 
with  things  to  rest  upon ;  the  men  with  their 
clean  complexions,  their  well-hung  chins,  their  cold, 
pleasant  eyes,  their  shoulders  set  back,  their  ab- 
sence of  gesture ;  the  women,  several  very  handsome, 
half  strangled  in  strings  of  pearls,  with  smooth  plain 
tresses,  seeming  to  look  at  nothing  in  particular,  sup- 
porting silence  as  if  it  were  as  becoming  as  candle- 
light, yet  talking  a  little,  sometimes,  in  fresh,  rich 
voices.  They  were  all  wrapped  in  a  community  of 
ideas,  of  traditions ;  they  understood  each  other's 
accent,  even  each  other's  variations.  Mrs.  Headway, 
with  all  her  prettiness,  seemed  to  transcend  these 
variations ;  she  looked  foreign,  exaggerated ;  she 
had  too  much  expression ;  she  might  have  been 
engaged  for  the  evening.  Waterville  remarked, 
moreover,  that  English  society  was  always  looking 
out  for  amusement  and  that  its  transactions  were 
conducted  on  a  cash  basis.  If  Mrs.  Headway  were 
amusing  enough  she  would  probably  succeed,  and 


84  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

her  fortune  —  if  fortune  there  was  —  would  not  be  a 
hinderance. 

In  the  drawing-room,  after  dinner,  he  went  up  to 
her,  but  she  gave  him  no  greeting.  She  only  looked 
at  him  with  an  expression  he  had  never  seen  before  — 
a  strange,  bold  expression  of  displeasure. 

"  Why  have  you  come  down  here  ? "  she  asked. 
"  Have  you  come  to  watch  me  ? " 

Waterville  colored  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  He 
knew  it  was  terribly  little  like  a  diplomatist ;  but  he 
was  unable  to  control  his  blushes.  Besides,  he  was 
shocked,  he  was  angry,  and  in  addition  he  was 
mystified.  "  I  came  because  I  was  asked,"  he  said. 

"Who  asked  you?" 

"  The  same  person  that  asked  you,  I  suppose  — 
Lady  Demesne." 

"  She  's  an  old  cat ! "  Mrs.  Headway  exclaimed, 
turning  away  from  him. 

He  turned  away  from  her  as  well.  He  did  n't  know 
what  he  had  done  to  deserve  such  treatment.  It  was 
a  complete  surprise ;  he  had  never  seen  her  like  that 
before.  She  was  a  very  vulgar  woman ;  that  was 
the  way  people  talked,  he  supposed,  at  San  Diego. 
He  threw  himself  almost  passionately  into  the  con- 
versation of  the  others,  who  all  seemed  to  him,  possi- 
bly a  little  by  contrast,  extraordinarily  genial  and 
friendly.  He  had  not,  however,  the  consolation  of 
seeing  Mrs.  Headway  punished  for  her  rudeness,  for 
she  was  not  in  the  least  neglected.  On  the  contrary, 
in  the  part  of  the  room  where  she  sat  the  group  was 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  85 

denser,  and  every  now  and  then  it  was  agitated  with 
unanimous  laughter.  If  she  should  amuse  them,  he 
said  to  himself,  she  would  succeed,  and  evidently  she 
was  amusing  them. 


VII. 


IF  she  was  strange,  he  had  not  come  to  the  end  of 
her  strangeness.  The  next  day  was  a  Sunday  and 
uncommonly  fine ;  he  was  down  before  breakfast,  and 
took  a  walk  in  the  park,  stopping  to  gaze  at  the  thin- 
legged  deer,  scattered  like  pins  on  a  velvet  cushion 
over  some  of  the  remoter  slopes,  and  wandering  along 
the  edge  of  a  large  sheej;  of  ornamental  water,  which 
had  a  temple,  in  imitation  of  that  of  Vesta,  on  an 
island  in  the  middle.  He  thought  at  this  time  no 
more  about  Mrs.  Headway ;  he  only  reflected  that 
these  stately  objects  had  for  more  than  a  hundred 
years  furnished  a  background  to  a  great  deal  of 
family  history.  A  little  more  reflection  would  perhaps 
have  suggested  to  him  that  Mrs.  Headway  was  possibly 
an  incident  of  some  importance  in  the  history  of 
a  family.  Two  or  three  ladies  failed  to  appear  at 
breakfast ;  Mrs.  Headway  was  one  of  them. 

"  She  tells  me  she  never  leaves  her  room  till  noon," 
he  heard  Lady  Demesne  say  to  the  general,  her 
companion  of  the  previous  evening,  who  had  asked 
about  her.  "  She  takes  three  hours  to  dress." 

"  She 's  a  monstrous  clever  woman  ! "  the  general 
exclaimed. 


86  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  To  do  it  in  three  hours  ? " 

"  No,  I  mean  the  way  she  keeps  her  wits  about 
her." 

"  Yes ;  I  think  she 's  very  clever,"  said  Lady 
Demesne,  in  a  tone  in  which  Waterville  flattered 
himself  that  he  saw  more  meaning  than  the  general 
could  see.  There  was  something  in  this  tall,  straight, 
deliberate  woman,  who  seemed  at  once  benevolent 
and  distant,  that  Waterville  admired.  With  her 
delicate  surface,  her  conventional  mildness,  he  could 
see  that  she  was  very  strong ;  she  had  set  her  patience 
upon  a  height,  and  she  carried  it  like  a  diadem.  She 
had  very  little  to  say  to  Waterville,  but  every  now 
and  then  she  made  some  inquiry  of  him  that  showed 
she  had  not  forgotten  him.  Demesne  himself  was 
apparently  in  excellent  spirits,  though  there  was 
nothing  bustling  in  his  deportment,  and  he  only  went 
about  looking  very  fresh  and  fair,  as  if  he  took  a 
bath  every  hour  or  two,  and  very  secure  against  the 
unexpected.  Waterville  had  less  conversation  with 
him  than  with  his  mother ;  but  the  young  man  had 
found  occasion  to  say  to  him  the  night  before,  in 
the  smoking-room,  that  he  was  delighted  Waterville 
had  been  able  to  come,  and  that  if  he  was  fond  of 
real  English  scenery  there  were  several  things  about 
there  he  should  like  very  much  to  show  him. 

"  You  must  give  me  an  hour  or  two  before  you 
go,  you  know ;  I  really  think  there  are  some  things 
you '11  like." 

Sir  Arthur  spoke  as  if  Waterville  would  be  very 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  87 

fastidious ;  he  seemed  to  wish  to  attach  a  vague 
importance  to  him.  On  the  Sunday  morning  after 
breakfast  he  asked  Waterville  if  he  should  care  to 
go  to  church ;  most  of  the  ladies  and  several  of  the 
men  were  going. 

"It's  just  as  you  please,  you  know;  but  it's 
rather  a  pretty  walk  across  the  fields,  and  a  curious 
little  church  of  King  Stephen's  time." 

Waterville  knew  what  this  meant ;  it  was  already  a 
picture.  Besides,  he  liked  going  to  church,  especially 
when  he  sat  in  the  Squire's  pew,  which  was  some- 
times as  big  as  a  boudoir.  So  he  replied  that  he 
should  be  delighted.  Then  he  added,  without  ex- 
plaining his  reason  — 

"  Is  Mrs.  Headway  going  ? " 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  said  his  host,  with  an 
abrupt  change  of  tone — as  if  Waterville  had  asked 
him  whether  the  housekeeper  were  going. 

"  The  English  are  awfully  queer  ! "  Waterville 
indulged  mentally  in  this  exclamation,  to  which  since 
his  arrival  in  England  he  had  had  recourse  whenever 
he  encountered  a  gap  in  the  consistency  of  things. 
The  church  was  even  a  better  picture  than  Sir 
Arthur's  description  of  it,  and  Waterville  said  to 
himself  that  Mrs.  Headway  had  been  a  great  fool  not 
to  come.  He  knew  what  she  was  after ;  she  wished 
to  study  English  life,  so  that  she  might  take  posses- 
sion of  it,  and  to  pass  in  among  a  hedge  of  bobbing 
rustics,  and  sit  among  the  monuments  of  the  old 
Demesnes,  would  have  told  her  a  great  deal  about 


88  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

English  life.  If  she  wished  to  fortify  herself  for  the 
struggle  she  had  better  come  to  that  old  church. 
When  he  returned  to  Longlands  —  he  had  walked 
back  across  the  meadows  with  the  canon's  wife,  who 
was  a  vigorous  pedestrian  —  it  wanted  half  an  hour  of 
luncheon,  and  he  was  unwilling  to  go  indoors.  He 
remembered  that  he  had  not  yet  seen  the  gardens, 
and  he  wandered  away  in  search  of  them.  They  were 
on  a  scale  which  enabled  him  to  find  them  without 
difficulty,  and  they  looked  as  if  they  had  been  kept 
up  unremittingly  for  a  century  or  two.  He  had  not 
advanced  very  far  between  their  blooming  borders 
when  he  heard  a  voice  that  he  recognized,  and  a 
moment  after,  at  the  turn  of  an  alley,  he  came  upon 
Mrs.  Headway,  who  was  attended  by  the  master  of 
Longlands.  She  was  bareheaded  beneath  her  parasol, 
which  she  flung  back,  stopping  short,  as  she  beheld 
her  compatriot. 

"  Oh,  it 's  Mr.  Waterville  come  to  spy  me  out  as 
usual ! "  It  was  with  this  remark  that  she  greeted 
the  slightly  embarrassed  young  man. 

"  Hallo  !  you  've  come  home  from  church,"  Sir 
Arthur  said,  pulling  out  his  watch. 

Waterville  was  struck  with  his  coolness.  He 
admired  it ;  for,  after  all,  he  said  to  himself,  it  must 
have  been  disagreeable  to  him  to  be  interrupted.  He 
felt  a  little  like  a  fool,  and  wished  he  had  kept  Mrs. 
April  with  him,  to  give  him  the  air  of  having  come 
for  her  sake. 

Mrs.  Headway  looked  adorably  fresh,  in  a  toilet 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  89 

which  Waterville,  who  had  his  ideas  on  such  matters, 
was  sure  would  not  be  regarded  as  the  proper  thing 
for  a  Sunday  morning  in  an  English  country  house  : 
a  neglig£  of  white  flounces  and  frills,  interspersed  with 
yellow  ribbons  —  a  garment  which  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour might  have  worn  when  she  received  a  visit 
from  Louis  XV.,  but  would  probably  not  have  worn 
when  she  went  into  the  world.  The  sight  of  this 
costume  gave  the  finishing  touch  to  Waterville's 
impression  that  Mrs.  Headway  knew,  on  the  whole, 
what  she  was  about.  She  would  take  a  line  of  her 
own ;  she  would  not  be  too  accommodating.  She 
would  not  come  down  to  breakfast ;  she  would  not  go 
to  church  ;  she  would  wear  on  Sunday  mornings  little 
elaborately  informal  dresses,  and  look  dreadfully  un- 
British  and  un-Protestant.  Perhaps,  after  all,  this  was 
better.  She  began  to  talk  with  a  certain  volubility. 

"  Is  n't  this  too  lovely  ?  I  walked  all  the  way  from 
the  house.  I  'm  not  much  at  walking,  but  the  grass 
in  this  place  is  like  a  parlor.  The  whole  thing  is 
beyond  everything.  Sir  Arthur,  you  ought  to  go  and 
look  after  the  Ambassador;  it's  shameful  the  way 
I  Ve  kept  you.  You  did  n't  care  about  the  Ambassa- 
dor? You  said  just  now  you  had  scarcely  spoken  to 
him,  and  you  must  make  it  up.  I  never  saw  such  a 
way  of  neglecting  your  guests.  Is  that  the  usual 
style  over  here  ?  Go  and  take  him  out  for  a  ride,  or 
make  him  play  a  game  of  billiards.  Mr.  Waterville 
will  take  me  home  ;  besides,  I  want  to  scold  him  for 
spying  on  me." 


90  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

Waterville  sharply  resented  this  accusation.  "  I 
had  no  idea  you  were  here,"  he  declared. 

"  We  were  n't  hiding,"  said  Sir  Arthur  quietly. 
"  Perhaps  you  '11  see  Mrs.  Headway  back  to  the 
house.  I  think  I  ought  to  look  after  old  Davidoff. 
I  believe  lunch  is  at  two." 

He  left  them,  and  Waterville  wandered  through 
the  gardens  with  Mrs.  Headway.  She  immediately 
wished  to  know  if  he  had  come  there  to  look  after 
her;  but  this  inquiry  was  accompanied,  to  his  sur- 
prise, with  the  acrimony  she  had  displayed  the  night 
before.  He  was  determined  not  to  let  that  pass,  how- 
ever ;  when  people  had  treated  him  in  that  way  they 
should  not  be  allowed  to  forget  it. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  am  always  thinking  of  you  ? " 
he  asked.  "You're  out  of  my  mind  sometimes.  I 
came  here  to  look  at  the  gardens,  and  if  you  had  n't 
spoken  to  me  I  should  have  passed  on." 

Mrs.  Headway  was  perfectly  good-natured ;  she 
appeared  not  even  to  hear  his  defence.  "  He  has  got 
two  other  places,"  she  simply  rejoined.  "  That 's  just 
what  I  wanted  to  know." 

But  Waterville  would  not  be  turned  away  from  his 
grievance.  That  mode  of  reparation  to  a  person 
whom  you  had  insulted  which  consisted  in  forgetting 
that  you  had  done  so,  was  doubtless  largely  in  use  in 
New  Mexico  ;  but  a  person  of  honor  demanded  some- 
thing more.  "What  did  you  mean  last  night  by 
accusing  me  of  having  come  down  here  to  watch 
you  ?  You  must  excuse  me  if  I  tell  you  that  I  think 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  91 

you  were  rather  rude."  The  sting  of  this  accusation 
lay  in  the  fact  that  there  was  a  certain  amount  of 
truth  in  it ;  yet  for  a  moment  Mrs.  Headway,  looking 
very  blank,  failed  to  recognize  the  allusion.  "  She 's 
a  barbarian,  after  all,"  thought  Waterville.  "She 
thinks  a  woman  may  slap  a  man's  face  and  run 
away ! " 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Mrs.  Headway,  suddenly,  "  I  remem- 
ber, I  was  angry  with  you ;  I  did  n't  expect  to  see 
you.  But  I  did  n't  really  care  about  it  at  all.  Every 
now  and  then  I  am  angry,  like  that,  and  I  work  it 
off  on  any  one  that 's  handy.  But  it 's  over  in  three 
minutes,  and  I  never  think  of  it  again.  I  was  angry 
last  night ;  I  was  furious  with  the  old  woman." 

"  With  the  old  woman  ? " 

"  With  Sir  Arthur's  mother.  She  has  no  business 
here,  any  way.  In  this  country,  when  the  husband 
dies,  they  're  expected  to  clear  out.  She  has  a  house 
of  her  own,  ten  miles  from  here,  and  she  has  another 
in  Portman  Square  ;  so  she  's  got  plenty  of  places  to 
live.  But  she  sticks — she  sticks  to  him  like  a  plaster. 
All  of  a  sudden  it  came  over  me  that  she  didn't 
invite  me  here  because  she  liked  me,  but  because 
she  suspects  me.  She 's  afraid  we  '11  make  a  match, 
and  she  thinks  I  ain't  good  enough  for  her  son. 
She  must  think  I  'm  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  hold  of 
him.  I  never  went  after  him,  he  came  after  me.  I 
should  never  have  thought  of  anything  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  him.  He  began  it  last  summer  at  Homburg ; 
he  wanted  to  know  why  I  did  n't  come  to  England  ; 


92  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

he  told  me  I  should  have  great  success.  He  does  n't 
know  much  about  it,  any  way ;  he  has  n't  got  much 
gumption.  "  But  he 's  a  very  nice  man,  all  the  same ; 
it 's  very  pleasant  to  see  him  surrounded  by  his  — " 
And  Mrs.  Headway  paused  a  moment,  looking  admir- 
ingly about  her  — "  Surrounded  by  all  his  old  heir- 
looms. I  like  the  old  place,"  she  went  on ;  "  it 's 
beautifully  mounted ;  I  'm  quite  satisfied  with  what 
I  've  seen.  I  thought  Lady  Demesne  was  very 
friendly ;  she  left  a  card  on  me  in  London,  and  very 
soon  after,  she  wrote  to  me  to  ask  me  here.  But  I  'm 
very  quick ;  I  sometimes  see  things  in  a  flash.  I  saw 
something  yesterday,  when  she  came  to  speak  to  me 
at  dinner-time.  She  saw  I  looked  pretty,  and  it  made 
her  blue  with  rage ;  she  hoped  I  would  be  ugly.  I 
should  like  very  much  to  oblige  her ;  but  what  can 
one  do  ?  Then  I  saw  that  she  had  asked  me  here 
only  because  he  insisted.  He  did  n't  come  to  see  me 
when  I  first  arrived  —  he  never  came  near  me  for 
ten  days.  She  managed  to  prevent  him;  she  got 
him  to  make  some  promise.  But  he  changed  his 
mind  after  a  little,  and  then  he  had  to  do  something 
really  polite.  He  called  three  days  in  succession,  and 
he  made  her  come.  She  's  one  of  those  women  that 
resists  as  long  as-  she  can,  and  then  seems  to  give 
in,  while  she 's  really  resisting  more  than  ever.  She 
hates  me  like  poison ;  I  don't  know  what  she  thinks 
I  've  done.  She 's  very  underhand ;  she 's  a  regular 
old  cat.  When  I  saw  you  last  night  at  dinner,  I 
thought  she  had  got  you  here  to  help  her." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  93 

"  To  help  her  ? "  Waterville  asked. 

"  To  tell  her  about  me.  To  give  her  information, 
that  she  can  make  use  of  against  me.  You  may  tell 
her  what  you  like  ! " 

Waterville  was  almost  breathless  with  the  atten- 
tion he  had  given  this  extraordinary  burst  of  confi- 
dence, and  now  he  really  felt  faint.  He  stopped 
short ;  Mrs.  Headway  went  on  a  few  steps,  and  then, 
stopping  too,  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "  You  're 
the  most  unspeakable  woman ! "  he  exclaimed.  She 
seemed  to' him  indeed  a  barbarian. 

She  laughed  at  him  —  he  felt  she  was  laughing  at 
his  expression  of  face  —  and  her  laugh  rang  through 
the  stately  gardens.  "  What  sort  of  a  woman  is 
that  ? " 

"You've  got  no  delicacy,"  said  Waterville,  reso- 
lutely. 

She  colored  quickly,  though,  strange  to  say,  she 
appeared  not  to  be  angry.  "  No  delicacy  ? "  she 
repeated. 

"  You  ought  to  keep  those  things  to  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean ;  I  talk  about  every- 
thing. When  I  'm  excited  I  've  got  to  talk.  But  I 
must  do  things  in  my  own  way.  I  Ve  got  plenty  of 
delicacy,  when  people  are  nice  to  me.  Ask  Arthur 
Demesne  if  I  ain't  delicate  —  ask  George  Littlemore 
if  I  ain't.  Don't  stand  there  all  day;  come  in  to 
lunch ! "  And  Mrs.  Headway  resumed  her  walk, 
while  Kupert  Waterville,  raising  his  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, slowly  overtook  her.  "  Wait  till  I  get  settled ; 


94  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

then  I  '11  be  delicate,"  she  pursued.  "  You  can't  be 
delicate  when  you  're  trying  to  save  your  life.  It 's 
very  well  for  you  to  talk,  with  the  whole  American 
Legation  to  back  you.  Of  course  I  'm  excited.  I  've 
got  hold  of  this  thing,  and  I  don't  mean  to  let  go  ! " 
Before  they  reached  the  house  she  told  him  why 
he  had  been  invited  to  Longlands  at  the  same  time 
as  herself.  Waterville  would  have  liked  to  believe 
that  his  personal  attractions  sufficiently  explained 
the  fact;  but  she  took  no  account  of  this  supposi- 
tion. Mrs.  Headway  preferred  to  think  that  she 
lived  in  an  element  of  ingenious  machination,  and 
that  most  things  that  happened  had  reference  to 
herself.  Waterville  had  been  asked  because  he  rep- 
resented, however  modestly,  the  American  Legation, 
and  their  host  had  a  friendly  desire  to  make  it 
appear  that  this  pretty  American  visitor,  of  whom  no 
one  knew  anything,  was  under  the  protection  of  that 
establishment.  "  It  would  start  me  better,"  said 
Mrs.  Headway,  serenely.  "You  can't  help  yourself 
—  you  've  helped  to  start  me.  If  he  had  known  the 
Minister  he  would  have  asked  him  —  or  the  first 
secretary.  But  he  don't  know  them." 

They  reached  the  house  by  the  time  Mrs.  Headway 
had  developed  this  idea,  which  gave  Waterville  a 
pretext  more  than  sufficient  for  detaining  her  in  the 
portico.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  Sir  Arthur  told  you 
this  ? "  he  inquired,  almost  sternly. 

"  Told  me  ?  Of  course  not !  Do  you  suppose  I 
would  let  him  take  the  tone  with  me  that  I  need 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  95 

any  favors  ?  I  should  like  to  hear  him  tell  me  that 
I  'm  in  want  of  assistance  ! " 

"  I  don't  see  why  he  should  n't  —  at  the  pace  you 
go  yourself.  You  say  it  to  every  one." 

"  To  every  one  ?  I  say  it  to  you,  and  to  George 
Littlemore  —  when  I  'm  nervous.  I  say  it  to  you 
because  I  like  you,  and  to  him  because  I  'm  afraid 
of  him.  I  'ni  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  you,  by  the 
way.  I  'm  all  alone1' —  I  have  n't  got  any  one.  I 
must  have  some  comfort,  must  n't  I  ?  Sir  Arthur 
scolded  me  for  putting  you  off  last  night  —  he 
noticed  it;  and  that  was  what  made  me  guess  his 
idea." 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  him,"  said  Waterville,  rather 
bewildered. 

"So  mind  you  answer  for  me.  Don't  you  want 
to  give  me  your  arm,  to  go  in  ? " 

"  You  're  a  most  extraordinary  combination,"  he 
murmured,  as  she  stood  smiling  at  him. 

"  Oh,  come,  don't  you  fall  in  love  with  me ! "  she 
cried,  with  a  laugh;  and,  without  taking  his  arm, 
passed  in  before  him. 

That  evening,  before  he  went  to  dress  for  dinner, 
Waterville  wandered  into  the  library,  where  he  felt 
sure  that  he  should  find  some  superior  bindings. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  room,  and  he  -spent  a 
happy  half-hour  among  the  treasures  of  literature 
and  the  triumphs  of  old  morocco.  He  had  a  great 
esteem  for  good  literature;  he  held  that  it  should 
have  handsome  covers.  The  daylight  had  begun  to 


96  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

wane,  but  whenever,  in  the  rich-looking  dimness, 
he  made  out  the  glimmer  of  a  well-gilded  back,  he 
took  down  the  volume  and  carried  it  to  one  of  the 
deep-set  windows.  He  had  just  finished  the  inspec- 
tion of  a  delightfully  fragrant  folio,  and  was  about 
to  carry  it  back  to  its  niche,  when  he  found  himself 
standing  face  to  face  with  Lady  Demesne.  He  was 
startled  for  a  moment,  for  her  tall,  slim  figure,  her 
fair  visage,  which  looked  white  in  the  high,  brown 
room,  and  the  air  of  serious  intention  with  which 
she  presented  herself,  gave  something  spectral  to 
her  presence.  He  saw  her  smile,  however,  and  heard 
her  say,  in  that  tone  of  hers  which  was  sweet  almost 
to  sadness,  " Are  you  looking  at  our  books ?  I'm 
afraid  they  are  rather  dull." 

"  Dull  ?  Why,  they  are  as  bright  as  the  day  they 
were  bound."  And  he  turned  the  glittering  panels 
of  his  folio  towards  her. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  have  n't  looked  at  them  for  a  long 
time,"  she  murmured,  going  nearer  to  the  window, 
where  she  stood  looking  out.  Beyond  the  clear 
pane  the  park  stretched  away,  with  the  grayness  of 
evening  beginning  to  hang  itself  on  the  great  limbs 
of  the  oaks.  The  place  appeared  cold  and  empty, 
and  the  trees  had  an  air  of  conscious  importance,  as 
if  nature  herself  had  been  bribed  somehow  to  take 
the  side  of  county  families.  Lady  Demesne  was  not 
an  easy  person  to  talk  with ;  she  was  neither  spon- 
taneous nor  abundant ;  she  was  conscious  of  herself, 
conscious  of  many  things.  Her  very  simplicity  was 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  97 

conventional,  though  it  was  rather  a  noble  conven- 
tion. You  might  have  pitied  her,  if  you  had  seen 
that  she  lived  in  constant  unrelaxed  communion  with 
certain  rigid  ideals.  This  made  her  at  times  seem 
tired,  like  a  person  who  has  undertaken  too  much. 
She  gave  an  impression  of  still  brightness,  which  was 
not  at  all  brilliancy,  but  a  carefully  preserved  purity. 
She  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  and  there  was  an 
appearance  of  design  in  her  silence,  as  if  she  wished 
to  let  him  know  that  she  had  a  certain  business  with 
him,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  announce  it.  She 
had  been  accustomed  to  expect  that  people  would 
suppose  things,  and  to  be  saved  the  trouble  of  expla- 
nations. Waterville  made  some  hap-hazard  remark 
about  the  beauty  of  the  evening  (in  point  of  fact,  the 
weather  had  changed  for  the  worse),  to  which  she 
vouchsafed  no  reply.  Then,  present!}7,  she  said,  with 
her  usual  gentleness,  "I  hoped  I  should  find  you  here 
—  I  wish  to  ask  you  something." 

"  Anything  I  can  tell  you  —  I  shall  be  delighted ! " 
Waterville  exclaimed. 

She  gave  him  a  look,  not  imperious,  almost  appeal- 
ing, which  seemed  to  say  —  "  Please  be  very  simple 
— very  simple  indeed."  Then  she  glanced  about  her, 
as  if  there  had  been  other  people  in  the  room ;  she 
did  n't  wish  to  appear  closeted  with  him,  or-  to  have 
come  on  purpose.  There  she  was,  at  any  rate,  and 
she  went  on.  "  When  my  son  told  me  he  should 
ask  you  to  come  down,  I  was  very  glad.  I  mean,  of 
course,  that  we  were  delighted  —  "  And  she  paused 

5 


98  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

a  moment.  Then  she  added,  simply,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  about  Mrs.  Headway." 

"  Ah,  here  it  is ! "  cried  Waterville  within  himself. 
More  superficially,  he  smiled,  as  agreeably  as  pos- 
sible, and  said,  "  Ah  yes,  I  see  ! " 

"  Do  you  mind  my  asking  you  ?  I  hope  you  don't 
mind.  I  have  n't  any  one  else  to  ask." 

"  Your  son  knows  her  much  better  than  I  do." 
Waterville  said  this  without  an  intention  of  malice, 
simply  to  escape  from  the  difficulties  of  his  situation ; 
but  after  he  had  said  it,  he  was  almost  frightened  by 
its  mocking  sound. 

"I  don't  think  he  knows  her.  She  knows  him, 
which  is  very  different.  When  I  ask  him  about  her, 
he  merely  tells  me  she  is  fascinating.  She  is  fas- 
cinating," said  her  ladyship,  with  inimitable  dryness. 

"So  I  think,  myself.  I  like  her  very  much," 
Waterville  rejoined,  cheerfully. 

"  You  are  in  all  the  better  position  to  speak  of  her, 
then." 

"  To  speak  well  of  her,"  said  Waterville,  smiling. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  can.  I  should  be  delighted  to 
hear  you  do  that.  That's  what  I  wish — to  hear 
some  good  of  her." 

It  might  have  seemed,  after  this,  that  nothing 
would  have  remained  but  for  Waterville  to  launch 
himself  in  a  panegyric  of  his  mysterious  country- 
woman ;  but  he  was  no  more  to  be  tempted  into  that 
danger  than  into  another.  "I  can  only  say  I  like 
her,"  he  repeated.  "  She  has  been  very  kind  to  me." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  99 

"  Every  one  seems  to  like  her,"  said  Lady  De- 
mesne, with  an  unstudied  effect  of  pathos.  "  She  is 
certainly  very  amusing." 

"  She  is  very  good-natured ;  she  has  lots  of  good 
intentions." 

"What  do  you  call  good  intentions?"  asked  Lady 
Demesne,  very  sweetly. 

"  Well,  I  mean  that  she  wants  to  be  friendly  and 
pleasant." 

"  Of  course  you  have  to  defend  her.  She  's  your 
countrywoman." 

"  To  defend  her  —  I  must  wait  till  she 's  attacked," 
said  Waterville,  laughing. 

"  That 's  very  true.  I  need  n't  call  your  attention 
to  the  fact  that  I  am  not  attacking  her.  I  should 
never  attack  a  person  staying  in  this  house.  I  only 
want  to  know  something  about  her,  and  if  you  can't 
tell  me,  perhaps  at  least  you  can  mention  some  one 
who  will." 

"  She  '11  tell  you  herself.     Tell  you  by  the  hour ! " 

"  What  she  has  told  my  son  ?  I  should  n't  under- 
stand it.  My  son  does  n't  understand  it.  It 's  very 
strange.  I  rather  hoped  you  might  explain  it." 

Waterville  was  silent  a  moment.  "  I  'in  afraid  I 
can't  explain  Mrs.  Headway,"  he  remarked  at  last. 

"  I  see  you  admit  she  is  very  peculiar." 

Waterville  hesitated  again.  "  It 's  too  great  a 
responsibility  to  answer  you."  He  felt  that  he 
was  very  disobliging;  he  knew  exactly  what  Lady 
Demesne  wished  him  to  say.  He  was  unprepared  to 


100  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

blight  the  reputation  of  Mrs.  Headway  to  accommo- 
date Lady  Demesne ;  and  yet,  with  his  active  little 
imagination,  he  could  enter  perfectly  into  the  feel- 
ings of  this  tender,  formal,  serious  woman,  who  —  it 
was  easy  to  see  —  had  looked  for  her  own  happiness 
in  the  cultivation  of  duty  and  in  extreme  constancy 
to  two  or  three  objects  of  devotion  chosen  once  for 
all.  She-^must,  indeed,  have  had  a  vision  of  things 
which  would  represent  Mrs.  Headway  as  both  dis- 
pleasing and  dangerous.  But  he  presently  became 
aware  that  she  had  taken  his  last  words  as  a  conces- 
sion in  which  she  might  find  help. 

"  You  know  why  I  ask  you  these  things,  then  ? " 

"I  think  I  have  an  idea,"  said  Waterville,  per- 
sisting in  irrelevant  laughter.  His  laugh  sounded 
foolish  in  his  own  ears. 

"If  you  know  that,  I  think  you  ought  to  assist 
me."  Her  tone  changed  as  she  spoke  these  words  ; 
there  was  a  quick  tremor  in  it ;  he  could  see  it  was 
a  confession  of  distress.  Her  distress  was  deep ;  he 
immediately  felt  that  it  must  have  been,  before  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  speak  to  him.  He  was  sorry 
for  her,  and  determined  to  be  very  serious. 

"  If  I  could  help  you  I  would.  But  my  position  is 
very  difficult." 

"  It 's  not  so  difficult  as  mine ! "  She  was  going 
all  lengths;  she  was  really  appealing  to  him.  "I 
don't  imagine  that  you  are  under  any  obligation  to 
Mrs.  Headway  —  you  seem  to  me  very  different," 
she  added. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  101 

Waterville  was  not  insensible  to  any  discrimina- 
tion that  told  in  his  favor ;  but  these  words  gave  him 
a  slight  shock,  as  if  they  had  been  an  attempt  at 
bribery.  "  I  am  surprised  that  you  don't  like  her," 
he  ventured  to  observe. 

Lady  Demesne  looked  out  of  the  window  a  little. 
"  I  don't  think  you  are  really  surprised,  though  pos- 
sibly you  try  to  be.  I  don't  like  her,  at  any  rate, 
and  I  can't  fancy  why  my  son  should.  She 's  very 
pretty,  and  she  appears  to  be  very  clever ;  but  I  don't 
trust  her.  I  don't  know  what  has  taken  possession 
of  him  ;  it  is  not  usual  in  his  family  to  marry  people 
like  that.  I  don't  think  she 's  a  lady.  The  person 
I  should  wish  for  him  would  be  so  very  different  — 
perhaps  you  can  see  what  I  mean.  There's  some- 
thing in  her  history  that  we  don't  understand.  My 
son  understands  it  no  better  than  I.  If  you  could 
only  explain  to  us,  that  might  be  a  help.  I  treat 
you  with  great  confidence  the  first  time  I  see  you ; 
it's  because  I  don't  know  where  to  turn.  I  am 
exceedingly  anxious." 

It  was  very  plain  that  she  was  anxious ;  her  man- 
ner had  become  more  vehement ;  her  eyes  seemed  to 
shine  in  the  thickening  dusk.  "  Are  you  very  sure 
there  is  danger  ?"  Waterville  asked.  "Has  he  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  and  has  she  consented  ?"  . 

"If  I  wait  till  they  settle  it  all,  it  will  be  too  late. 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  my  son  is  not  engaged, 
but  he  is  terribly  entangled.  At  the  same  time  he 
is  very  uneasy,  and  that  may  save  him  yet.  He  has 


102  TEE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

a  great  sense  of  honor.  He  is  not  satisfied  about  Ler 
past  life  ;  he  does  n't  know  what  to  think  of  what  we 
have  been  told.  Even  what  she  admits  is  so  strange. 
She  has  been  married  four  or  five  times — she  has 
been  divorced  again  and  again —  it  seems  so  extraor- 
dinary. She  tells  him  that  in  America  it  is  differ- 
ent, and  I  daresay  you  have  not  our  ideas ;  but  really 
there  is  a  limit  to  everything.  There  must  have  been 
some  great  irregularities  —  I  am  afraid  some  great 
scandals.  It 's  dreadful  to  have  to  accept  such  things. 
He  has  not  told  me  all  this  ;  but  it 's  not  necessary 
he  should  tell  me ;  I  know  him  well  enough  to 
guess." 

"  Does  he  know  that  you  have  spoken  to  me  ?" 
Waterville  asked. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  But  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
shall  repeat  to  him  anything  that  you  may  say 
against  her." 

"  I  had  better  say  nothing,  then.  It 's  very  deli- 
cate. Mrs.  Headway  is  quite  undefended.  One  may 
like  her  or  not,  of  course.  I  have  seen  nothing  of 
her  that  is  not  perfectly  correct." 

"  And  you  have  heard  nothing  ? " 

Waterville  remembered  Littlemore's  assertion  that 
there  were  cases  in  which  a  man  was  bound  in  honor 
to  tell  an  untruth,  and  he  wondered  whether  this 
were  such  a  case.  Lady  Demesne  imposed  herself, 
she  made  him  believe  in  the  reality  of  her  grievance, 
and  he  saw  the  gulf  that  divided  her  from  a  pushing 
little  woman  who  had  lived  with  Western  editors. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  103 

She  was  right  to  wish  not  to  be  connected  with  Mrs. 
Headway.  After  all,  there  had  been  nothing  in  his 
relations  with  that  lady  to  make  it  incumbent  on 
him  to  lie  for  her.  He  had  not  sought  her  acquaint- 
ance, she  had  sought  his  ;  she  had  sent  for  him  to 
come  and  see  her.  And  yet  he  couldn't  give  her 
away,  as  they  said  in  New  York ;  that  stuck  in  his 
throat.  "  I  am  afraid  I  really  can't  say  anything. 
And  it  would  n't  matter.  Your  son  won't  give  her 
up  because  I  happen  not  to  like  her." 

"If  he  were  to  believe  she  has  done  wrong,  he 
would  give  her  up." 

"  Well,  I  have  no  right  to  say  so,"  said  Waterville. 

Lady  Demesne  turned  away ;  she  was  much  disap- 
pointed in  him.  He  was  afraid  she  was  going  to 
break  out — "Why,  then,  do  you  suppose  I  asked  you 
here  ? "  She  quitted  her  place  near  the  window  and 
was  apparently  about  to  leave  the  room.  But  she 
stopped  short.  "You  know  something  against  her, 
but  you  won't  say  it." 

Waterville  hugged  his  folio  and  looked  awkward. 
"  You  attribute  things  to  me.  I  shall  never  say  any- 
thing." 

"  Of  course  you  are  perfectly  free.  There  is  some 
one  else  who  knows,  I  think — another  American — 
a  gentleman  who  was  in  Paris  when  my  son  was 
there.  I  have  forgotten  his  name." 

"A  friend  of  Mrs.  Headway's?  I  suppose  you 
mean  George  Littlernore." 

"Yes  —  Mr.  Littlemore.     He   has  a  sister,  whom 


104  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

I  have  met ;  I  did  n't  know  she  was  his  sister  till 
to-day.  Mrs.  Headway  spoke  of  her,  but  I  find  she 
does  n't  know  her.  That  itself  is  a  proof,  I  think. 
Do  you  think  lie  would  help  me  ?"  Lady  Demesne 
asked,  very  simply. 

"  I  douht  it,  hut  you  can  try." 

"  I  wish  he  had  come  with  you.  Do  you  think  he 
would  come  ? " 

"  He  is  in  America  at  this  moment,  hut  I  believe 
he  soon  comes  back." 

"  I  shall  go  to  his  sister ;  I  will  ask  her  to  bring 
•him  to  see  me.  She  is  extremely  nice  ;  I  think  she 
will  understand.  Unfortunately  there  is  very  little 
time." 

"Don't  count  too  much  on  Littlemore,"  said  Water- 
ville,  gravely. 

"  You  men  have  no  pity." 

"  Why  should  we  pity  you  ?  How  can  Mrs. 
Headway  hurt  such  a  person  as  you  ? " 

Lady  Demesne  hesitated  a  moment.  "It  hurts 
me  to  hear  her  voice." 

"  Her  voice  is  very  sweet." 

"  Possibly.     But  she 's  horrible  ! " 

This  was  too  much,  it  seemed  to  Waterville  ;  poor 
Mrs.  Headway  was  extremely  open  to  criticism, 
and  he  himself  had  declared  she  was  a  barbarian. 
Yet  she  was  not  horrible.  "  It 's  for  your  son  to  pity 
you.  If  he  doesn't,  how  can  you  expect  it  of 
others  ? " 

"  Oh,  but  he  does  ! "     And  with  a  majesty  that 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  105 

was  more  striking  even  than  her  logic,  Lady  Demesne 
moved  towards  the  door. 

Waterville  advanced  to  open  it  for  her,  and  as  she 
passed  out  he  said,  "  There 's  one  thing  you  can  do 
—try  to  like  her ! " 

She  shot  him  a  terrible  glance.  "  That  would  be 
worst  of  all !  " 

VIII. 

GEORGE  LITTLEMORE  arrived  in  London  on  the 
twentieth  of  May,  and  one  of  the  first  things  he  did 
was  to  go  and  see  Waterville  at  the  Legation,  where 
he  made  known  to  him  that  he  had  taken  for  the 
rest  of  the  season  a  house  at  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  so 
that  his  sister  and  her  husband,  who,  under  the  pres- 
sure of  diminished  rents,  had  let  their  own  town- 
residence,  might  come  up  and  spend  a  couple  of 
months  with  him. 

"  One  of  the  consequences  of  your  having  a  house 
will  be  that  you  will  have  to  entertain  Mrs.  Head- 
way," Waterville  said. 

Littlemore  sat  there  with  his  hands  crossed  upon 
his  stick ;  he  looked  at  Waterville  with  an  eye  that 
failed  to  kindle  at  the  mention  of  this  lady's  name. 
"  Has  she  got  into  European  society  ? "  he  asked, 
rather  languidly. 

"  Very  much,  I  should  say.  She  has  a  house,  and 
a  carriage,  and  diamonds,  and  everything  handsome. 
She  seems  already  to  know  a  lot  of  people ;  they  put 

5* 


106  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

her  name  in  the  Morning  Post.  She  has  come  up 
very  quickly;  she's  almost  famous.  Every  one  is 
asking  about  her  —  you  '11  be  plied  with  questions."  ' 
Littlemore  listened  gravely.  "How  did  she  get 
in?" 

"She  met  a  large  party  at  Longlands,  and  made 
them  all  think  her  great  fun.  They  must  have  taken 
her  up  ;  she  only  wanted  a  start." 

Littlemore  seemed  suddenly  to  be  struck  with  the 
grotesqueness  of  this  news,  to  which  his  first  response 
was  a  burst  of  quick  laughter.  "  To  think  of  Nancy 
Beck !  The  people  here  are  queer  people.  There 's 
no  one  they  won't  go  after.  They  wouldn't  touch 
her  in  New  York." 

"  Oh,  New  York 's  old-fashioned,"  said  Waterville ; 
and  he  announced  to  his  friend  that  Lady  Demesne 
was  very  eager  for  his  arrival,  and  wanted  to  make 
him  help  her  prevent  her  son's  bringing  such  a  per- 
son into  the  family.  Littlemore  apparently  was  not 
alarmed  at  her  ladyship's  projects,  and  intimated,  in 
the  manner  of  a  man  who  thought  them  rather 
impertinent,  that  he  could  trust  himself  to  keep  out 
of  her  way.  "  It  is  n't  a  proper  marriage,  at  any 
rate,"  Waterville  declared. 

"  Why  not,  if  he  loves  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  that 's  all  you  want ! "  cried  Waterville, 
with  a  degree  of  cynicism  that  rather  surprised  his 
companion.  "  Would  you  marry  her  yourself  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  I  were  in  love  with  her." 

"  You  took  care  not  to  be  that." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  107 

"Yes,  I  did  —  and  so  Demesne  had  better  have 
done.  But  since  he's  bitten  — !"  and  Littlemore 
terminated  his  sentence  in  a  suppressed  yawn. 

Waterville  presently  asked  him  how  he  would 
manage,  in  view  of  his  sister's  advent,  about  asking 
Mrs.  Headway  to  his  house ;  and  he  replied  that  he 
would  manage  by  simply  not  asking  her.  Upon  this, 
Waterville  declared  that  he  was  very  inconsistent; 
to  which  Littlemore  rejoined  that  it  was  very  pos- 
sible. But  he  asked  whether  they  couldn't  talk 
about  something  else  than  Mrs.  Headway.  He 
could  n't  enter  into  the  young  man's  interest  in  her, 
and  was  sure  to  have  enough  of  her  later. 

Waterville  would  have  been  sorry  to  give  a  false 
idea  of  his  interest  in  Mrs.  Headway ;  for  he  flattered 
himself  the  feeling  had  definite  limits.  He  had  been 
two  or  three  times  to  see  her ;  but  it  was  a  relief  to 
think  that  she  was  now  quite  independent  of  him. 
There  had  been  no  revival  of  that  intimate  inter- 
course which  occurred  during  the  visit  to  Longlands. 
She  could  dispense  with  assistance  now;  she  knew 
herself  that  she  was  in  the  current  of  success.  She 
pretended  to  be  surprised  at  her  good  fortune,  espe- 
cially at  its  rapidity ;  but  she  was  really  surprised 
at  nothing.  She  took  things  as  they  came,  and,  being 
essentially  a  woman  of  action,  wasted  almost  as  little 
time  in  elation  as  she  would  have  done  in  despond- 
ence. She  talked  a  great  deal  about  Lord  Edward 
and  Lady  Margaret,  and  about  such  other  members 
of  the  nobility  as  had  shown  a  desire  to  cultivate  her 


108  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

acquaintance ;  professing  to  understand  perfectly  the 
sources  of  a  popularity  which  apparently  was  des- 
tined to  increase.  "  They  come  to  laugh  at  me,"  she 
said  ;  "  they  come  simply  to  get  things  to  repeat.  I 
can't  open  iny  mouth  but  they  burst  into  fits.  It 's 
a  settled  thing  that  I  'm  an  American  humorist ;  if  I 
say  the  simplest  things,  they  begin  to  roar.  I  must 
express  myself  somehow;  and  indeed  when  I  hold 
my  tongue  they  think  me  funnier  than  ever.  They 
repeat  what  I  say  to  a  great  person,  and  a  great  per- 
son told  some  of  them  the  other  night  that  he  wanted 
to  hear  me  for  himself.  I  '11  do  for  him  what  I  do 
for  the  others;  no  better  and  no  worse.  I  don't 
know  how  I  do  it ;  I  talk  the  only  way  I  can.  They 
tell  me.it  is  n't  so  much  the  things  I  say  as  the  way 
I  say  them.  Well,  they  're  very  easy  to  please. 
They  don't  care  for  me  ;  it 's  only  to  be  able  to  repeat 
Mrs.  Headway's  '  last.'  Every  one  wants  to  have  it 
first ;  it 's  a  regular  race."  When  she  found  what 
was  expected  of  her,  she  undertook  to  supply  the 
article  in  abundance;  and  the  poor  little  woman 
really  worked  hard  at  her  Americanisms.  If  the 
taste  of  London  lay  that  way,  she  would  do  her  best 
to  gratify  it ;  it  was  only  a  pity  she  had  n't  known 
it  before ;  she  would  have  made  more  extensive  prep- 
arations. She  thought  it  a  disadvantage,  of  old,  to 
live  in  Arizona,  in  Dakotah,  in  the  newly  admitted 
States ;  but  now  she  perceived  that,  as  she  phrased 
it  to  herself,  this  was  the  best  thing  that  ever  had 
happened  to  her.  She  tried  to  remember  all  the 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  109 

queer  stories  she  had  heard  out  there,  and  keenly 
regretted  that  she  had  not  taken  them  down  in  writ- 
ing; she  drummed  up  the  echoes  of  the  Kocky  Moun- 
tains and  practised  the  intonations  of  the  Pacific 
slope.  When  she  saw  her  audience  in  convulsions, 
she  said  to  herself  that  this  was  success,  and  believed 
that,  if  she  had  only  come  to  London  five  years 
sooner,  she  might  have  married  a  duke.  That  would 
have  been  even  a  more  absorbing  spectacle  for  the 
London  world  than  the  actual  proceedings  of  Sir  Ar- 
thur Demesne,  who,  however,  lived  sufficiently  in  the 
eye  of  society  to  justify  the  rumor  that  there  were 
bets  about  town  as  to  the  issue  of  his  already  pro- 
tracted courtship.  It  was  food  for  curiosity  to  see  a 
young  man  of  his  pattern  —  one  of  the  few  "  earnest" 
young  men  of  the  Tory  side,  with  an  income  suffi- 
cient for  tastes  more  marked  than  those  by  which  he 
was  known  —  make  up  to  a  lady  several  years  older 
than  himself,  whose  fund  of  Californian  slang  was 
even  larger  than  her  stock  of  dollars.  Mrs.  Headway 
had  got  a  good  many  new  ideas  since  her  arrival  in 
London,  but  she  also  retained  several  old  ones.  The 
chief  of  these  —  it  was  now  a  year  old  —  was  that 
Sir  Arthur  Demesne  was  the  most  irreproachable 
young  man  in  the  world.  There  were,  of  course,  a 
good  many  things  that  he  was  not.  He.  was  not 
amusing ;  he  was  not  insinuating ;  he  was  not  of  an 
absolutely  irrepressible  ardor.  She  believed  he  was 
constant ;  but  he  was  certainly  not  eager.  With 
these  things,  however,  Mrs.  Headway  could  perfectly 


110  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

dispense ;  she  had,  in  particular,  quite  outlived  the 
need  of  being  amused.  She  had  had  a  very  exciting 
life,  and  her  vision  of  happiness  at  present  was  to 
be  magnificently  bored.  The  idea  of  complete  and 
uncriticised  respectability  filled  her  soul  with  satisfac- 
tion; her  imagination  prostrated  itself  in  the  presence 
of  this  virtue.  She  was  aware  that  she  had  achieved 
it  but  ill  in  her  own  person ;  but  she  could  now,  at 
least,  connect  herself  with  it  by  sacred  ties.  She 
could  prove  in  that  way  what  was  her  deepest  feeling. 
This  was  a  religious  appreciation  of  Sir  Arthur's 
great  quality  —  his  smooth  and  rounded,  his  bloom- 
ing, lily-like  exemption  from  social  flaws. 

She  was  at  home  when  Littlemore  went  to  see  her, 
and  surrounded  by  several  visitors,  to  whom  she  was 
giving  a  late  cup  of  tea  and  to  whom  she  introduced 
her  compatriot.  He  stayed  till  they  dispersed,  in 
spite  of  the  manoeuvres  of  a  gentleman  who  evidently 
desired  to  outstay  him,  but  who,  whatever  might  have 
been  his  happy  fortune  on  former  visits,  received  on 
this  occasion  no  encouragement  from  Mrs.  Headway. 
He  looked  at  Littlemore  slowly,  beginning  with  his 
boots  and  travelling  upwards,  as  if  to  discover  the 
reason  of  so  unexpected  a  preference,  and  then, 
without  a  salutation,  left  him  face  to  face  with  their 
hostess. 

"  I  'm  curious  to  see  what  you  '11  do  for  me,  now 
that  you  've  got  your  sister  with  you,"  Mrs.  Headway 
presently  remarked,  having  heard  of  this  circumstance 
from  Eupert  Waterville.  "  I  suppose  you  11  have  to 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  Ill 

do  something,  you  know.  I  'm  sorry  for  you ;  but  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  get  off.  You  might  ask  me 
to  dine  some  day  when  she  's  dining  out.  I  would 
come  even  then,  I  think,  because  I  want  to  keep  on 
the  right  side  of  you." 

"  I  call  that  the  wrong  side,"  said  Littlemore. 

"  Yes,  I  see.  It 's  your  sister  that 's  on  the  right 
side.  You  're  in  rather  an  embarrassing  position, 
ain't  you  ?  However,  you  take  those  things  very 
quietly.  There 's  something  in  you  that  exasperates 
me.  What  does  your  sister  think  of  me  ?  Does 
she  hate  me  ?  " 

"  She  knows  nothing  about  you." 

"  Have  you  told  her  nothing  ?  " 

"  Never  a  word." 

"  Has  n't  she  asked  you  ?  That  shows  that  she 
hates  me.  She  thinks  I  ain't  creditable  to  America. 
I  know  all  that.  She  wants  to  show  people  over 
here  that,  however  they  may  be  taken  in  by  me, 
she  knows  much  better.  But  she  '11  have  to  ask 
you  about  me;  she  can't  go  on  for  ever.  Then 
what  '11  you  say  ? " 

"That  you're  the  most  successful  woman  in  Europe." 

"  Oh,  bother  !"  cried  Mrs.  Headway,  with  irritation. 

"  Have  n't  you  got  into  European  society  ?  " 

"  Maybe  I  have,  maybe  I  have  n't.  It 's  too  soon 
to  see.  I  can't  tell  this  season.  Every  one  says  I  've 
got  to  wait  till  next,  to  see  if  it 's  the  same.  Some- 
times they  take  you  up  for  a  few  weeks,  and  then 
never  know  you  again.  You  Ve  got  to  fasten  the 
thing  somehow  —  to  drive  in  a  nail." 


112  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  were  your  coffin,"  said  Little- 
more. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  kind  of  coffin.     I  'm  burying  my 
past ! " 

Littlemore  winced  at  this.  He  was  tired  to  death 
of  her  past.  He  changed  the  subject,  and  made  her 
talk  about  London,  a  topic  which  she  treated  with  a 
great  deal  of  humor.  She  entertained  him  for  half 
an  hour,  at  the  expense  of  most  of  her  new  acquaint- 
ances and  of  some  of  the  most  venerable  features  of 
the  great  city.  He  himself  looked  at  England  from 
the  outside,  as  much  as  it  was  possible  to  do;  but 
in  the  midst  of  her  familiar  allusions  to  people  and 
things  known  to  her  only  since  yesterday,  he  was 
struck  with  the  fact  that  she  would  never  really  be 
initiated.  She  buzzed  over  the  surface  of  things  like 
a  fly  on  a  window-pane.  She  liked  it  immensely ; 
she  was  flattered,  encouraged,  excited ;  she  dropped 
her  confident  judgments  as  if  she  were  scattering 
flowers,  and  talked  about  her  intentions,  her  pros- 
pects, her  wishes.  But  she  knew  no  more  about 
English  life  than  about  the  molecular  theory.  The 
words  in  which  he  had  described  her  of  old  to 
Waterville  came  back  to  him  :  "  JElle  ne  se  doute  de 
rien  ! "  Suddenly  she  jumped  up ;  she  was  going 
out  to  dine,  and  it  was  time  to  dress.  "  Before  you 
leave  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something,"  she 
said  off-hand,  but  with  a  look  which  he  had  seen 
before  and  which  meant  that  the  point  was  impor- 
tant. "  You  '11  be  sure  to  be  questioned  about  me." 
And  then  she  paused. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  113 

"  How  do  people  know  I  know  you  ? " 

"  You  have  n't  bragged  about  it  ?  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?  You  can  be  a  brute  when  you  try. 
They  do  know  it,  at  any  rate.  Possibly  I  may  have 
told  them.  They  '11  come  to  you,  to  ask  about  me. 
I  mean  from  Lady  Demesne.  She 's  in  an  awful 
state  —  she  's  so  afraid  her  son  '11  marry  me." 

Littlemore  was  unable  to  control  a  laugh.  "  I  'm 
not,  if  he  has  n't  done  it  yet." 

"  He  can't  make  up  his  mind.  He  likes  me  so 
much,  yet  he  thinks  I  'm  not  a  woman  to  marry."  It 
was  positively  grotesque,  the  detachment  with  which 
she  spoke  of  herself. 

"  He  must  be  a  poor  creature  if  he  won't  marry  you 
as  you  are,"  Littlemore  said. 

This  was  not  a  very  gallant  form  of  speech ;  but 
Mrs.  Headway  let  it  pass.  She  only  replied,  "  Well, 
he  wants  to  be  very  careful,  and  so  he  ought  to  be ! " 

"If  he  asks  too  many  questions,  he's  not  worth 
marrying." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  —  he  's  worth  marrying  what- 
ever he  does  —  he 's  worth  marrying  for  me.  And  I 
want  to  marry  him  —  that 's  what  I  want  to  do." 

"  Is  he  waiting  for  me,  to  settle  it  ? " 

"  He 's  waiting  for  I  don't  know  what  —  for  some 
one  to  come  and  tell  him  that  I  'm  the  sweetest  of 
the  sweet.  Then  he'll  believe  it.  Some  one  who 
has  been  out  there  and  knows  all  about  me.  Of 
course  you  're  the  man,  you  're  created  on  purpose. 
Don't  you  remember  how  I  told  you  in  Paris  that  he 


114  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

wanted  to  ask  you  ?  He  was  ashamed,  and  lie  gave 
it  up ;  he  tried  to  forget  me.  But  now  it 's  all  on 
again ;  only,  meanwhile,  his  mother  has  been  at  him. 
She  works  at  him  night  and  day,  like  a  weasel  in  a 
hole,  to  persuade  him  that  I'm  far  beneath  him. 
He 's  very  fond  of  her,  and  he 's  very  open  to  influ- 
ence —  I  mean  from  his  mother,  not  from  any  one 
else.  Except  me,  of  course.  Oh,  I  've  influenced  him, 
I  Ve  explained  everything  fifty  times  over.  But 
some  things  are  rather  complicated,  don't  you  know ; 
and  he  keeps  coming  back  to  them.  He  wants  every 
little  speck  explained.  He  won't  come  to  you  him- 
self, but  his  mother  will,  or  she  '11  send  some  of  her 
people.  I  guess  she  '11  send  the  lawyer  —  the  family 
solicitor,  they  call  him.  She  wanted  to  send  him  out 
to  America  to  make  inquiries,  only  she  did  n't  know 
where  to  send.  Of  course  I  could  n't  be  expected  to 
give  the  places,  they  Ve  got  to  find  them  out  for 
themselves.  She  knows  all  about  you,  and  she  has 
made  the  acquaintance  of  your  sister.  So  you  see 
how  much  I  know.  She  's  waiting  for  you ;  she 
means  to  catch  you.  She  has  an  idea  she  can  fix  you 
—  make  you  say  what '11  meet  her  views.  Then 
she  11  lay  it  before  Sir  Arthur.  So  you  '11  be  so  good 
as  to  deny  everything." 

Littlemore  listened  to  this  little  address  attentively, 
but  the  conclusion  left  him  staring.  "You  don't 
mean  that  anything  I  can  say  will  make  a  differ- 
ence ? " 

"  Don't  be  affected !  You  know  it  will  as  well  as  I." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  115 

"  You  make  him  out  a  precious  idiot." 

"Never  mind  what  I  make  him  out.     I  want  to 

marry  him,  that 's  all.    And  I  appeal  to  you  solemnly. 

You  can  save  me,  as  you  can  lose  me.     If  you  lose 

me,  you  '11  be  a  coward.   And  if  you  say  a  word  against 

me,  I  shall  be  lost." 

"  Go  and  dress  for  dinner,  that 's  your  salvation," 

Littlemore  answered,  separating  from  her  at  the  head 

of  the  stairs. 


IX. 


IT  was  very  well  for  him  to  take  that  tone ;  but  he 
felt  as  he  walked  home  that  he  should  scarcely  know 
what  to  say  to  people  who  were  determined,  as  Mrs. 
Headway  put  it,  to  catch  him.  She  had  worked  a 
certain  spell ;  she  had  succeeded  in  making  him  feel 
responsible.  The  sight  of  her  success,  however, 
rather  hardened  his  heart ;  he  was  irritated  by  her 
ascending  movement.  He  dined  alone  that  evening, 
while  his  sister  and  her  husband,  who  had  engage- 
ments every  day  for  a  month,  partook  of  their  repast 
at  the  expense  of  some  friends.  Mrs.  Dolphin,  how- 
ever, came  home  rather  early,  and  immediately  sought 
admittance  to  the  small  apartment  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase,  which  was  already  spoken  of  as  Littlemore's 
den.  Eeginald  had  gone  to  a  "  squash  "  somewhere, 
and  she  had  returned  without  delay,  having  some- 
thing particular  to  say  to  her  brother.  She  was  too 
impatient  even  to  wait  till  the  next  morning.  She 


116  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

looked  impatient ;  she  was  very  unlike  George  Little- 
more.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Headway," 
she  said,  while  he  started  slightly  at  the  coincidence 
of  this  remark  with  his  own  thoughts.  He  was  just 
making  up  his  mind  at  last  to  speak  to  her.  She 
unfastened  her  cloak  and  tossed  it  over  a  chair,  then 
pulled  off  her  long  tight  black  gloves,  which  were  not 
so  fine  as  those  Mrs.  Headway  wore ;  all  this  as  if 
she  were  preparing  herself  for  an  important  inter- 
view. She  was  a  small,  neat  woman,  who  had  once 
been  pretty,  with  a  small,  thin  voice,  a  sweet,  quiet 
manner,  and  a  perfect  knowledge  of  what  it  was  proper 
to  do  on  every  occasion  in  life.  She  always  did  it, 
and  her  conception  of  it  was  so  definite  that  failure 
would  have  left  her  without  excuse.  She  was  usually 
not  taken  for  an  American,  but  she  made  a  point  of 
being  one,  because  she  flattered  herself  that  she  was  of 
a  type  which,  in  that  nationality,  borrowed  distinc- 
tion from  its  rarity.  She  was  by  nature  a  great  con- 
servative, and  had  ended  by  being  a  better  Tory  than 
her  husband.  She  was  thought  by  some  of  her  old 
friends  to  have  changed  immensely  since  her  mar- 
riage. She  knew  as  much  about  English  society  as  if 
she  had  invented  it ;  had  a  way,  usually,  of  looking 
as  if  she  were  dressed  for  a  ride  ;  had  also  thin  lips 
and  pretty  teeth ;  and  was  as  positive  as  she  was 
amiable.  She  told  her  brother  that  Mrs.  Headway 
had  given  out  that  he  was  her  most  intimate  friend, 
and  she  thought  it  rather  odd  he  had  never  spoken  of 
her.  He  admitted  that  he  had  known  her  a  long 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  117 

time,  referred  to  the  circumstances  in  which  the 
acquaintance  had  sprung  up,  and  added  that  he  had 
seen  her  that  afternoon.  He  sat  there  smoking  his 
cigar  and  looking  at  the  ceiling,  while  Mrs.  Dolphin 
delivered  herself  of  a  series  of  questions.  Was  it 
true  that  he  liked  her  so  much,  was  it  true  he  thought 
her  a  possible  woman  to  marry,  was  it  not  true  that 
her  antecedents  had  heen  most  peculiar  ? 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  have  a  letter  from 
Lady  Demesne,"  Mrs.  Dolphin  said.  "  It  came  to  me 
just  before  I  went  out,  and  I  have  it  in  my  pocket." 

She  drew  forth  the  missive,  which  she  evidently 
wished  to  read  to  him ;  but  he  gave  her  no  invitation 
to  do  so.  He  knew  that  she  had  come  to  him  to  ex- 
tract a  declaration  adverse  to  Mrs.  Headway's  projects, 
and  however  little  satisfaction  he  might  take  in  this 
lady's  upward  flight,  he  hated  to  be  urged  and  pushed. 
He  had  a  great  esteem  for  Mrs.  Dolphin,  who,  among 
other  Hampshire  notions,  had  picked  up  that  of  the 
preponderance  of  the  male  members  of  a  family,  so 
that  she  treated  him  with  a  consideration  which  made 
his  having  an  English  sister  rather  a  luxury.  Never- 
theless he  was  not  very  encouraging  about  Mrs.  Head- 
way. He  admitted  once  for  all  that  she  had  not 
behaved  properly  —  it  wasn't  worth  while  to  split 
hairs  about  that  —  but  he  could  n't  see  that  she  was 
much  worse  than  many  other  women,  and  he  could  n't 
get  up  much  feeling  about  her  marrying  or  not  marry- 
ing. Moreover,  it  was  none  of  his  business,  and  he 
intimated  that  it  was  none  of  Mrs.  Dolphin's. 


118  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"One  surely  can't  resist  the  claims  of  common 
humanity ! "  his  sister  replied ;  and  she  added  that 
he  was  very  inconsistent.  He  didn't  respect  Mrs. 
Headway,  he  knew  the  most  dreadful  things  about 
her,  he  didn't  think  her  fit  company  for  his  own 
flesh  and  blood.  And  yet  he  was  willing  to  let  poor 
Arthur  Demesne  be  taken  in  by  her  ! 

"  Perfectly  willing  ! "  Littlemore  exclaimed.  "  All 
I've  got  to  do  is  not  to  marry  her  myself." 

"  Don't  you  think  we  have  any  responsibilities,  any 
duties?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  If  she  can  suc- 
ceed, she's  welcome.  It's  a  splendid  sight  in  its 
way." 

"  How  do  you  mean  splendid  ? " 

"  Why,  she  has  run  up  the  tree  as  if  she  were  a 
squirrel ! " 

"  It 's  very  true  that  she  has  an  audacity  a  toute 
tpreuve.  But  English  society  has  become  scandal- 
ously easy.  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  people 
that  are  taken  up.  Mrs.  Headway  has  had  only  to 
appear  to  succeed.  If  they  think  there's  something 
bad  about  you  they  '11  be  sure  to  run  after  you.  It 's 
like  the  decadence  of  the  Eoman  Empire.  You  can 
see  to  look  at  Mrs.  Headway  that  she 's  not  a  lady. 
She 's  pretty,  very  pretty,  but  she  looks  like  a  dissi- 
pated dressmaker.  She  failed  absolutely  in  New 
York.  I  have  seen  her  three  times  —  she  apparently 
goes  everywhere.  I  didn't  speak  of  her  —  I  was 
wanting  to  see  what  you  would  do.  I  saw  that  you 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  119 

meant  to  do  nothing,  then  this  letter  decided  me. 
It's  written  on  purpose  to  be  shown  to  you;  it's 
what  she  wants  you  to  do.  She  wrote  to  me  before 
I  came  to  town,  and  I  went  to  see  her  as  soon  as  I 
arrived.  I  think  it  very  important.  I  told  her  that 
if  she  would  draw  up  a  little  statement  I  would  put 
it  before  you  as  soon  as  we  got  settled.  She's  in 
real  distress.  I  think  you  ought  to  feel  for  her.  You 
ought  to  communicate  the  facts  exactly  as  they  stand. 
A  woman  has  no  right  to  do  such  things  and  come 
and  ask  to  be  accepted.  She  may  make  it  up  with 
her  conscience,  but  she  can't  make  it  up  with  society. 
Last  night  at  Lady  Dovedale's  I  was  afraid  she  would 
know  who  I  was  and  come  and  speak  to  me.  I  was 
so  frightened  that  I  went  away.  If  Sir  Arthur  wishes 
to  marry  her  for  what  she  is,  of  course  he 's  welcome. 
But  at  least  he  ought  to  know." 

Mrs.  Dolphin  was  not  excited  nor  voluble;  she 
moved  from  point  to  point  with  a  calmness  which 
had  all  the  air  of  being  used  to  have  reason  on  its 
side.  She  deeply  desired,  however,  that  Mrs.  Head- 
way's triumphant  career  should  be  checked  ;  she  had 
sufficiently  abused  the  facilities  of  things.  Herself  a 
party  to  an  international  marriage,  Mrs.  Dolphin 
naturally  wished  that  the  class  to  which  she  belonged 
should  close  its  ranks  and  carry  its  standard  high. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  she 's  quite  as  good  as  the 
little  baronet,"  said  Littlemore,  lighting  another  cigar. 

"  As  good  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  No  one  has 
ever  breathed  a  word  against  him." 


120  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"Very  likely.  But  he's  a  nonentity,  and  she  at 
least  is  somebody.  She  's  a  person,  and  a  very  clever 
one.  Besides,  she  's  quite  as  good  as  the  women  that 
lots  of  them  have  married.  I  never  heard  that  the 
British  gentry  were  so  unspotted." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  other  cases,"  Mrs.  Dolphin 
said,  "I  only  know  about  this  one.  It  so  happens 
that  I  have  been  brought  near  to  it,  and  that  an 
appeal  has  been  made  to  me.  The  English  are  very 
romantic  —  the  most  romantic  people  in  the  world,  if 
that 's  what  you  mean.  They  do  the  strangest  things, 
from  the  force  of  passion  —  even  those  from  whom 
you  would  least  expect  it.  They  marry  their  cooks 
—  they  marry  their  coachmen  —  and  their  romances 
always  have  the  most  miserable  end.  I  'm  sure  this 
one  would  be  most  wretched.  How  can  you  pretend 
that  such  a  woman  as  that  is  to  be  trusted  ?  What  I 
see  is  a  fine  old  race — one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
honorable  in  England,  people  with  every  tradition  of 
good  conduct  and  high  principle  —  and  a  dreadful, 
disreputable,  vulgar  little  woman,  who  has  n't  an  idea 
of  what  such  things  are,  trying  to  force  her  way  into 
it.  I  hate  to  see  such  things  —  I  want  to  go  to  the 
rescue ! " 

"  I  don't  —  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  fine  old 
race." 

"  Not  from  interested  motives,  of  course,  any  more 
than  I.  But  surely,  on  artistic  grounds,  on  grounds 
of  decency  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Headway  is  n't  indecent  —  you  go  too  far. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  121 

You  must  remember  that  she  'a  an  old  friend  of 
mine."  Littlemore  had  become  rather  stern;  Mrs. 
Dolphin  was  forgetting  the  consideration  due,  from 
an  English  point  of  view,  to  brothers. 

She  forgot  it  even  a  little  more.  "  Oh,  if  you  are 
in  love  with  her,  too  !  "  she  murmured,  turning  away. 

He  made  no  answer  to  this,  and  the  words  had 
no  sting  for  him.  But  at  last,  to  finish  the  affair, 
he  asked  what  in  the  world  the  old  lady  wanted 
him  to  do.  Did  she  want  him  to  go  out  into  Pic- 
cadilly and  announce  to  the  passers-by  that  there 
was  one  winter  when  even  Mrs.  Headway's  sister 
did  n't  know  who  was  her  husband  ? 

Mrs.  Dolphin  answered  this  inquiry  by  reading 
out  Lady  Demesne's  letter,  which  her  brother,  a's 
she  folded  it  up  again,  pronounced  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  letters  he  had  ever  heard. 

"  It 's  very  sad  —  it 's  a  cry  of  distress,"  said  Mrs. 
Dolphin.  "  The  whole  meaning  of  it  is  that  she 
wishes  you  would  come  and  see  her.  STie  does  n't 
say  so  in  so  many  words,  but  I  can  read  between  the 
lines.  Besides,  she  told  me  she  would  give  anything 
to  see  you.  Let  me  assure  you  it 's  your  duty  to  go." 

"  To  go  and  abuse  Nancy  Beck  ?  " 

"  Go  and  praise  her,  if  you  like  !  "  This  was  very 
clever  of  Mrs.  Dolphin,  but  her  brother  was  not  so 
easily  caught.  He  did  n't  take  that  view  of  his  duty, 
and  he  declined  to  cross  her  ladyship's  threshold. 
"  Then  she  11  come  and  see  3'ou,"  said  Mrs.  Dolphin, 
with  decision. 

6 


122  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  If  she  does,  I  '11  tell  her  Nancy  's  an  angel." 

"  If  you  can  say  so  conscientiously,  she  '11  be 
delighted  to  hear  it,"  Mrs.  Dolphin  replied,  as  she 
gathered  up  her  cloak  and  gloves. 

Meeting  Eupert  Waterville  the  next  day,  as  he 
often  did,  at  the  St.  George's  Club,  which  offers  a 
much-appreciated  hospitality  to  secretaries  of  lega- 
tion and  to  the  natives  of  the  countries  they  assist 
in  representing,  Littlemore  let  him  know  that  his 
prophecy  had  been  fulfilled  and  that  Lady  Demesne 
had  been  making  proposals  for  an  interview.  "  My 
sister  read  me  a  most  remarkable  letter  from  her," 
he  said. 

"What  sort  of  a  letter?" 

"  The  letter  of  a  woman  so  scared  that  she  will  do 
anything.  I  may  be  a  great  brute,  but  her  fright 
amuses  me." 

"  You  're  in  the  position  of  Olivier  de  Jalin,  in  the 
Demi-Monde"  Waterville  remarked. 

"  In  the  Demi-Monde  ?  "  Littlemore  was  not  quick 
at  catching  literary  allusions. 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  play  we  saw  in  Paris  ? 
Or  like  Don  Fabrice  in  L' Aventuriere.  A  bad  woman 
tries  to  marry  an  honorable  man,  who  does  n't  know 
how  bad  she  is,  and  they  who  do  know  step  in  and 
push  her  back." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
lying,  all  round." 

"  They  prevented  the  marriage,  however,  which  is 
the  great  thing." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  123 

"The  great  thing,  if  you  care  about  it.  One  of 
them  was  the  intimate  friend  of  the  fellow,  the  other 
was  his  son.  Demesne  's  nothing  to  me." 

"  He 's  a  very  good  fellow,"  said  Waterville. 

"  Go  and  tell  him,  then." 

"  Play  the  part  of  Olivier  de  Jalin  ?  Oh,  I  can't ; 
I  'm  not  Olivier.  But  I  wish  he  would  come  along. 
Mrs.  Headway  ought  n't  really  to  be  allowed  to  pass." 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  they  'd  let  me  alone,"  Little- 
more  murmured,  ruefully,  staring  for  a  while  out  of 
the  window. 

"  Do  you  still  hold  to  that  theory  you  propounded 
in  Paris  ?  Are  you  willing  to  commit  perjury  ? " 
Waterville  asked. 

"Of  course  I  can  refuse  to  answer  questions  — 
even  that  one." 

"  As  I  told  you  before,  that  will  amount  to  a  con- 
demnation." 

"It  may  amount  to  what  it  pleases.  I  think  I 
will  go  to  Paris." 

"That  will  be  the  same  as  not  answering.  But 
it 's  quite  the  best  thing  you  can  do.  I  have  been 
thinking  a  great  deal  about  it,  and  it  seems  to  me, 
from  the  social  point  of  view,  that,  as  I  say,  she 
really  ought  n't  to  pass."  Waterville  had  the  air 
of  looking  at  the  thing  from  a  great  elevation;  his 
tone,  the  expression  of  his  face,  indicated  this  lofty 
flight;  the  effect  of  which,  as  he  glanced  down  at 
his  didactic  young  friend,  Littlemore  found  pecul- 
iarly irritating. 


124  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"No,  after  all,  hanged  if  they  shall  drive  me  away ! " 
he  exclaimed  abruptly;  and  walked  off,  while  his 
companion  looked  after  him. 


X. 


THE  morning  after  this  Littlemore  received  a  note 
from  Mrs.  Headway  —  a  short  and  simple  note,  con- 
sisting merely  of  the  words,  "  I  shall  be  at  home  this 
afternoon;  will  you  come  and  see  me  at  five?  I 
have  something  particular  to  say  to  you."  He  sent 
no  answer  to  this  inquiry,  but  he  went  to  the  little 
house  in  Chesterfield  Street  at  the  hour  that  its 
mistress  had  designated. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  know  what  sort  of  woman  I 
am ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  he  stood  before  her. 

"  Oh,  Lord ! "  Littlemore  groaned,  dropping  into  a 
chair.  Then  he  added,  "  Don't  begin  on  that  sort  of 
thing!" 

"I  shall  begin  —  that's  what  I  wanted  to  say. 
It's  very  important.  You  don't  know  me  —  you 
don't  understand  me.  You  think  you  do  —  but  you 
don't." 

"It  isn't  for  the  want  of  your  having  told  me 
—  many,  many  times  ! "  And  Littlemore  smiled, 
though  he  was  bored  at  the  prospect  that  opened 
before  him.  The  last  word  of  all  was,  decidedly,  that 
Mrs.  Headway  was  a  nuisance.  She  did  n't  deserve 
to  be  spared ! 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  125 

She  glared  at  him  a  little,  at  this ;  her  face  was  no 
longer  the  face  that  smiled.  She  looked  sharp  and 
violent,  almost  old ;  the  change  was  complete.  But 
she  gave  a  little  angry  laugh.  "  Yes,  I  know ;  men 
are  so  stupid.  They  know  nothing  about  women  but 
what  women  tell  them.  And  women  tell  them  things 
on  purpose,  to  see  how  stupid  they  can  be.  I  Ve  told 
you  things  like  that,  just  for  amusement,  when  it  was 
dull.  If  you  believed  them,  it  was  your  own  fault. 
But  now  I  am  serious,  I  want  you  really  to  know." 
"  I  don't  want  to  know.  I  know  enough." 
"  How  do  you  mean,  you  know  enough  ? "  she  cried, 
with  a  flushed  face.  "What  business  have  you  to 
know  anything?"  The  poor  little  woman,  in  her 
passionate  purpose,  was  not  obliged  to  be  consistent, 
and  the  loud  laugh  with  which  Littlemore  greeted 
this  interrogation  must  have  seemed  to  her  unduly 
harsh.  "  You  shall  know  what  I  want  you  to  know, 
however.  You  think  me  a  bad  woman— you  don't 
respect  me ;  I  told  you  that  in  Paris.  I  have  done 
things  I  don't  understand,  myself,  to-day;  that  I 
admit,  as  fully  as  you  please.  But  I  Ve  completely 
changed,  and  I  want  to  change  everything.  You 
ought  to  enter  into  that ;  you  ought  to  see  what  I 
want.  I  hate  everything  that  has  happened  to  me 
before  this ;  I  loathe  it,  I  despise  it.  I  went  on  that 
way  trying — one  thing  and  another.  But  now  I've 
got  what  I  want.  Do  you  expect  me  to  go  down  on 
my  knees  to  you  ?  I  believe  I  will,  I  'm  so  anxious. 
You  can  help  me — no  one  else  can  do  a  thing — no 


126  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

one  can  do  anything — they  are  only  waiting  to  see 
if  he  '11  do  it.  I  told  you  in  Paris  you  could  help 
me,  and  it's  just  as  true  now.-  Say  a  good  word  for 
me,  for  God's  sake  !  You  have  n't  lifted  your  little 
finger,  or  I  should  know  it  by  this  time.  It  will 
just  make  the  difference.  Or  if  your  sister  would 
come  and  see  me,  I  should  be  all  right.  Women  are 
pitiless,  pitiless,  and  you  are  pitiless  too.  It  is  n't 
that  she  's  anything  so  great,  most  of  my  friends  are 
better  than  that !  — but  she  's  the  one  woman  who 
knows,  and  people  know  that  she  knows.  He  knows 
that  she  knows,  and  he  knows  she  does  n't  come.  So 
she  kills  me  —  she  kills  me  !  I  understand  perfectly 
what  he  wants — I  shall  do  everything,  be  anything, 
I  shall  be  the  most  perfect  wife.  The  old  woman 
will  adore  me  when  she  knows  me —  it 's  too  stupid 
of  her  not  to  see.  Everything  in  the  past  is  over ;  it 
has  all  fallen  away  from  me ;  it 's  the  life  of  another 
woman.  This  was  what  I  wanted  ;  I  knew  I  should 
find  it  some  day.  What  could  I  do  in  those  horrible 
places  ?  I  had  to  take  what  I  could.  But  now  I  Ve 
got  a  nice  country.  I  want  you  to  do  me  justice ; 
you  have  never  done  me  justice ;  that 's  what  I  sent 
for  you  for." 

Littlemore  suddenly  ceased  to  be  bored  ;  but  a  vari- 
ety of  feelings  had  taken  the  place  of  a  single  one. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  be  touched ;  she  really 
meant  what  she  said.  People  don't  change  their 
nature ;  but  they  change  their  desires,  their  ideal, 
their  effort.  This  incoherent  and  passionate  protes- 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  127 

tation  was  an  assurance  that  she  was  literally 
panting  to  be  respectable.  But  the  poor  woman, 
whatever  she  did,  was  condemned,  as  Littlemore  had 
said  of  old,  in  Paris,  to  Waterville,  to  be  only  half- 
right.  The  color  rose  to  her  visitor's  face  as  he 
listened  to  this  outpouring  of  anxiety  and  egotism ; 
she  had  not  managed  her  early  life  very  well,  but 
there  was  110  need  of  her  going  down  on  her  knees. 
"  It 's  very  painful  to  me  to  hear  all  this,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  under  no  obligation  to  say  such  things  to 
me.  You  entirely  misconceive  my  attitude  —  my 
influence." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  shirk  it  — you  only  wish  to  shirk  it ! " 
she  cried,  flinging  away  fiercely  the  sofa-cushion  on 
which  she  had  been  resting. 

"  Marry  whom  you  please ! "  Littlemore  almost 
shouted,  springing  to  his  feet. 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  the  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  the  servant  announced  Sir  Arthur  De- 
mesne. The  baronet  entered  with  a  certain  briskness, 
but  he  stopped  short  on  seeing  that  Mrs.  Headway 
had  another  visitor.  Kecognizing  Littlemore,  how- 
ever, he  gave  a  slight  exclamation,  which  might 
have  passed  for  a  greeting.  Mrs.  Headway,  who 
had  risen  as  he  came  in,  looked  with  extraordinary 
earnestness  from  one  of  the  men  to  the  other ;  then, 
like  a  person  who  had  a  sudden  inspiration,  she 
clasped  her  hands  together  and  cried  out,  "  I  'm  so 
glad  you  've  met ;  if  I  had  arranged  it,  it  could  n't  be 
better ! " 


128  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON,  j 

"  If  you  had  arranged  it  ?  "  said  Sir  Arthur,  crink- 
ling a  little  his  high,  white  forehead,  while  the  con- 
viction rose  before  Littlemore  that  she  had  indeed 
arranged  it. 

"  I  'm  going  to  do  something  very  strange,"  she 
went  on,  and  her  eye  glittered  with  a  light  that  con- 
firmed her  words. 

"  You  're  excited,  I  'm  afraid  you  're  ill."  Sir 
Arthur  stood  there  with  his  hat  and  his  stick ;  he  was 
evidently  much  annoyed. 

"  It 's  an  excellent  opportunity ;  you  must  forgive 
me  if  I  take  advantage."  And  she  flashed  a  tender, 
touching  ray  at  the  baronet.  "I  have  wanted  this 
a  long  time — perhaps  you  have  seen  I  wanted  it. 
Mr.  Littlemore  has  known  me  a  long,  long  time ;  he 's 
an  old,  old  friend.  I  told  you  that  in  Paris,  don't 
you  remember  ?  Well,  he 's  my  only  one,  and  I 
want  him  to  speak  for  me."  Her  eyes  had  turned 
now  to  Littlemore;  they  rested  upon  him  with  a 
sweetness  that  only  made  the  whole  proceeding 
more  audacious.  She  had  begun  to  smile  again, 
though  she  was  visibly  trembling.  "  He  's  my  only 
one,"  she  continued ;  "  it 's  a  great  pity,  you  ought  to 
have  known  others.  But  I  'm  very  much  alone,  I 
must  make  the  best  of  what  I  have.  I  want  so 
much  that  some  one  else  than  myself  should 
speak  for  me.  Women  usually  can  ask  that  service 
of  a  relative,  or  of  another  woman.  I  can't;  it's 
a  great  pity,  but  it's  not  my  fault,  it's  my  mis- 
fortune. None  of  my  people  are  here;  and  I'm 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  129 

terribly  alone  in  the  world.  But  Mr.  Littlemore  will 
tell  you  ;  he  will  say  he  has  known  me  for  years.  He 
will  tell  you  whether  he  knows  any  reason — whether 
he  knows  anything  against  me.  He  's  been  wanting 
the  chance  ;  but  he  thought  he  could  n't  begin  him- 
self. You  see  I  treat  you  as  an  old  friend,  dear  Mr. 
Littlemore.  I  will  leave  you  with  Sir  Arthur.  You 
will  both  excuse  me."  The  expression  of  her  face, 
turned  towards  Littlemore,  as  she  delivered  herself 
of  this  singular  proposal  had  the  inteutness  of  a 
magician  who  wishes  to  work  a  spell.  She  gave  Sir 
Arthur  another  smile,  and  then  she  swept  out  of  the 
room. 

The  two  men  remained  in  the  extraordinary  posi- 
tion that  she  had  created  for  them ;  neither  of  them 
moved  even  to  open  the  door  for  her.  She  closed  it 
behind  her,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  deep,  por- 
tentous silence.  Sir  Arthur  Demesne,  who  was  very 
pale,  stared  hard  at  the  carpet. 

"I  am  placed  in  an  impossible  situation,"  Little- 
more  said  at  last,  "  and  I  don't  imagine  that  you 
accept  it  any  more  than  I  do." 

The  baronet  kept  the  same  attitude;  he  neither 
looked  up  nor  answered.  Littlemore  felt  a  sudden 
gush  of  pity  for  him.  Of  course  he  could  n't  accept 
the  situation ;  but  all  the  same,  he  was  half  sick  with 
anxiety  to  see  how  this  nondescript  American,  who 
was  both  so  valuable  and  so  superfluous,  so  familiar 
and  so  inscrutable,  would  consider  Mrs.  Headway's 
challenge. 

6* 


130  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

"  Have  you  any  question  to  ask  me  ? "  Littlemore 
went  on. 

At  this  Sir  Arthur  looked  up.  Littlemore  had 
seen  the  look  before ;  he  had  described  it  to  Water- 
ville  after  the  baronet  came  to  call  on  him  in  Paris. 
There  were  other  things  mingled  with  it  now  — 
shame,  annoyance,  pride ;  but  the  great  thing,  the 
intense  desire  to  know,  was  paramount. 

"Good  God,  how  can  I  tell  him?"  Littlemore 
exclaimed  to  himself. 

Sir  Arthur's  hesitation  was  probably  extremely 
brief;  but  Littlemore  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock 
while  it  lasted.  "Certainly,  I  have  no  question  to 
ask,"  the  young  man  said  in  a  voice  of  cool,  almost 
insolent  surprise. 

"  Good-day,  then." 

"  Good-day." 

And  Littlemore  left  Sir  Arthur  in  possession.  He 
expected  to  find  Mrs.  Headway  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase ;  but  he  quitted  the  house  without  interrup- 
tion. 

On  the  morrow,  after  lunch,  as  he  was  leaving  the 
little  mansion  at  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  the  postman 
handed  him  a  letter.  Littlemore  opened  and  read  it 
on  the  steps  of  his  house,  an  operation  which  took 
but  a  moment.  It  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  LITTLEMORE,  —  It  will  interest  you  to  know 
that  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to  Sir  Arthur  Demesne,  and 
that  our  marriage  is  to  take  place  as  soon  as  their  stupid  old 
Parliament  rises.  But  it 's  not  to  come  out  for  some  days,  and 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  131 

I  am  sure  that   I  can  trust  meanwhile  to  your  complete 
discretion. 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"NANCY  H. 

"  P.S.  —  He  made  me  a  terrible  scene  for  what  I  did  yester- 
day, but  he  came  back  in  the  evening  and  made  it  up.  That  Js 
how  the  thing  comes  to  be  settled.  He  won't  tell  me  what 
passed  between  you  —  he  requested  me  never  to  allude  to  the 
subject.  I  don't  care  ;  I  was  bound  you  should  speak  !  " 

Littlemore  thrust  this  epistle  into  his  pocket  and 
marched  away  with  it.  He  had  come  out  to  do  vari- 
ous things,  but  he  forgot  his  business  for  the  time, 
and  before  he  knew  it  had  walked  into  Hyde  Park. 
He  left  the  carriages  and  riders  to  one  side  of  him 
and  followed  the  Serpentine  into  Kensington  Gar- 
dens, of  which  he  made  the  complete  circuit.  He 
felt  annoyed,  and  more  disappointed  than  he  under- 
stood—  than  he  would  have  understood  if  he  had 
tried.  Now  that  Nancy  Beck  had  succeeded,  her 
success  seemed  offensive,  and  he  was  almost  sorry 
he  had  not  said  to  Sir  Arthur  —  "  Oh,  well,  she  was 
pretty  bad,  you  know."  However,  now  the  thing 
was  settled,  at  least  they  would  leave  him  alone. 
He  walked  off  his  irritation,  and  before  he  went 
about  the  business  he  had  come  out  for,  had  ceased 
to  think  about  Mrs.  Headway.  He  went  home  at 
six  o'clock,  and  the  servant  who  admitted  him 
informed  him  in  doing  so  that  Mrs.  Dolphin  had 
requested  he  should  be  told  on  his  return  that 
she  wished  to  see  him  in  the  drawing-room.  "  It 's 


132  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

another  trap ! "  he  said  to  himself,  instinctively ;  but, 
in  spite  of  this  reflection,  he  went  upstairs.  On 
entering  the  apartment  in  which  Mrs.  Dolphin  was 
accustomed  to  sit,  he  found  that  she  had  a  visitor. 
This  visitor,  who  was  apparently  on  the  point  of 
departing,  was  a  tall,  elderly  woman,  and  the  two 
ladies  stood  together  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  you  Ve  come  back,"  said  Mrs.  Dol- 
phin, without  meeting  her  brother's  eye.  "  I  want 
so  much  to  introduce  you  to  Lady  Demesne,  and  I 
hoped  you  would  come  in.  Must  you  really  go  — 
won't  you  stay  a  little  ? "  she  added,  turning  to  her 
companion ;  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  went 
on  hastily  —  "I  must  leave  you  a  moment  —  excuse 
me.  I  will  come  back ! "  Before  he  knew  it,  Little- 
more  found  himself  alone  with  Lady  Demesne,  and 
he  understood  that,  since  he  had  not  been  willing  to 
go  and  see  her,  she  had  taken  upon  herself  to  make 
an  advance.  It  had  the  queerest  effect,  all  the  same, 
to  see  his  sister  playing  the  same  tricks  as  Nancy 
Beck! 

"  Ah,  she  must  be  in  a  fidget ! "  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  stood  before  Lady  Demesne.  She  looked  deli- 
cate and  modest,  even  timid,  as  far  as  a  tall,  serene 
woman  who  carried  her  head  very  well  could  look 
so;  and  she  was  such  a  different  type  from  Mrs. 
Headway  that  his  present  vision  of  Nancy's  triumph 
gave  her  by  contrast  something  of  the  dignity  of  the 
vanquished.  It  made  him  feel  sorry  for  her.  She 
lost  no  time ;  she  went  straight  to  the  point.  She 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  133 

evidently  felt  that  in  the  situation  in  which  she  had 
placed  herself,  her  only  advantage  could  consist  in 
being  simple  and  business-like. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  for  a  moment.  I  wish  so 
much  to  ask  you  if  you  can  give  me  any  information 
about  a  person  you  know  and  about  whom  I  have 
been  in  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Dolphin.  I  mean 
Mrs.  Headway." 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ? "  asked  Littlemore. 

"  No,  I  thank  you.     I  have  only  a  moment." 

"  May  I  ask  you  why  you  make  this  inquiry  ? " 

"Of  course  I  must  give  you  my  reason.  I  am 
afraid  my  son  will  marry  her." 

Littlemore  was  puzzled  for  a  moment ;  then  he  felt 
sure  that  she  was  not  yet  aware  of  the  fact  imparted 
to  him  in  Mrs.  Headway's  note.  "You  don't  like 
her  ?  "  he  said,  exaggerating  in  spite  of  himself  the 
interrogative  inflexion. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Lady  Demesne,  smiling  and  look- 
ing at  him.  Her  smile  was  gentle,  without  rancor ; 
Littlemore  thought  it  almost  beautiful. 

"  What  would  you  like  me  to  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Whether  you  think  her  respectable." 

"  What  good  will  that  do  you  ?  How  can  it  possi- 
bly affect  the  event  ? " 

"It  will  do  me  no  good,  of  course,  if  your  opinion 
is  favorable.  But  if  you  tell  me  it  is  not,  I  shall  be 
able  to  say  to  my  son  that  the  one  person  in  London 
who  has  known  her  more  than  six  months  thinks  her 
a  bad  woman," 


134  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

This  epithet,  on  Lady  Demesne's  clear  lips,  evoked 
no  protest  from  Littlemore.  He  had  suddenly  be- 
come conscious  of  the  need  to  utter  the  simple  truth 
with  which  he  had  answered  Eupert  Waterville's  first 
question  at  the  Theatre  Francois.  "I  don't  think 
Mrs.  Headway  respectable,"  he  said. 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  say  that."  Lady  Demesne 
seemed  to  pant  a  little. 

"  I  can  say  nothing  more  —  not  a  word.  That 's 
my  opinion.  I  don't  think  it  will  help  you." 

"  I  think  it  will.  I  wished  to  have  it  from  your 
own  lips.  That  makes  all  the  difference,"  said  Lady 
Demesne.  "  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you."  And 
she  offered  him  her  hand ;  after  which  he  accompa- 
nied her  in  silence  to  the  door. 

He  felt  no  discomfort,  no  remorse,  at  what  he  had 
said  ;  he  only  felt  relief.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he 
believed  it  would  make  no  difference.  It  made  a  dif- 
ference only  in  what  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  things 
—  his  own  sense  of  fitness.  He  only  wished  he  had 
remarked  to  Lady  Demesne  that  Mrs.  Headway  would 
probably  make  her  son  a  capital  wife.  But  that,  at 
least,  would  make  no  difference.  He  requested  his 
sister,  who  had  wondered  greatly  at  the  brevity  of 
his  interview  with  Lady  Demesne,  to  spare  him  all 
questions  on  this  subject ;  and  Mrs.  Dolphin  went 
about  for  some  days  in  the  happy  faith  that  there 
were  to  be  no  dreadful  Americans  in  English  society 
compromising  her  native  land. 

Her  faith,  however,  was  short-lived.     Nothing  had 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON.  135 

made  any  difference ;  it  was,  perhaps,  too  late.  The 
London  world  heard  in  the  first  days  of  July,  not 
that  Sir  Arthur  Demesne  was  to  marry  Mrs.  Head- 
way, but  that  the  pair  had  been  privately,  and  it 
was  to  be  hoped,  as  regards  Mrs.  Headway,  on  this 
occasion  indissolubly,  united.  Lady  Demesne  gave 
neither  sign  nor  sound ;  she  only  retired  to  the 
country. 

"I  think  you  might  have  done  differently,"  said 
Mrs.  Dolphin,  very  pale,  to  her  brother.  "But  of 
course  everything  will  come  out  now." 

"  Yes,  and  make  her  more  the  fashion  than  ever ! " 
Littlemore  answered,  with  cynical  laughter.  After 
his  little  interview  with  the  elder  Lady  Demesne,  he 
did  not  feel  himself  at  liberty  to  call  again  upon  the 
younger;  and  he  never  learned  —  he  never  even 
wished  to  know  —  whether  in  the  pride  of  her  suc- 
cess she  forgave  him. 

Waterville  —  it  was  very  strange  —  was  positively 
scandalized  at  this  success.  He  held  that  Mrs. 
Headway  ought  never  to  have  been  allowed  to 
marry  a  confiding  gentleman;  and  he  used,  in 
speaking  to  Littlemore,  the  same  words  as  Mrs. 
Dolphin.  He  thought  Littlemore  might  have  clone 
differently. 

He  spoke  with  such  vehemence  that  Littlemore 
looked  at  him  hard  —  hard  enough  to  make  him 
blush. 

"  Did  you  want  to  marry  her  yourself  ? "  his  friend 


136  THE  SIEGE  OF  LONDON. 

inquired.     "  My  dear  fellow,  you  're  in  love  with  her  ! 
That 's  what 's  the  matter  with  you." 

This,  however,  blushing  still  more,  Water ville 
indignantly  denied.  A  little  later  he  heard  from 
New  York  that  people  were  beginning  to  ask  who  in 
the  world  was  Mrs.  Headway. 


THE   PENSION   BEAUKEPAS. 


THE    PENSION   BEAUREPAS. 


I  WAS  not  rich  —  on  the  contrary ;  and  I  had  been 
told  the  Pension  Beaurepas  was  cheap.  I  had  more- 
over been  told  that  a  boarding-house  is  a  capital  place 
for  the  study  of  human  nature.  I  had  a  fancy  for  a 
literary  career,  and  a  friend  of  mine  had  said  to  me, 
"  If  you  mean  to  write  you  ought  to  go  and  live  in  a 
boarding-house  ;  there  is  no  other  such  place  to  pick 
up  material."  I  had  read  something  of  this  kind  in  a 
letter  addressed  by  Stendhal  to  his  sister :  "  I  have 
a  passionate  desire  to  know  human  nature,  and  have 
a  great  mind  to  live  in  a  boarding-house,  where  peo- 
ple cannot  conceal  their  real  characters."  I  was  an 
admirer  of  the  Chartreuse  de  Panne,  and  it  appeared 
to  me  that  one  could  not  do  better  than  follow  in  the 
footsteps  of  its  author.  I  remembered,  too,  the  mag- 
nificent boarding-house  in  Balzac's  Pere  Goriot, — 
the  "pension  lourgeoise  des  deux  sexes  et  autres"  kept 
by  Madame  Vauquer,  n&  De  Conflans.  Magnifi- 
cent, I  mean,  as  a  piece  of  portraiture ;  the  establish- 
ment, as  an  establishment,  was  certainly  sordid 

Copyright,  1879,  by  Hougliton,  Osgood,  &  Co. 


140  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

enough,  and  I  hoped  for  better  things  from  the  Pen- 
sion Beaurepas.  This  institution  was  one  of  the  most 
esteemed  in  Geneva,  and,  standing  in  a  little  garden 
of  its  own,  not  far  from  the  lake,  had  a  very  homely, 
comfortable,  sociable  aspect.  The  regular  entrance 
was,  as  one  might  say,  at  the  back,  which  looked 
upon  the  street,  or  rather  upon  a  little  place,  adorned 
like  every  place  in  Geneva,  great  or  small,  with  a 
fountain.  This  fact  was  not  prepossessing,  for  on. 
crossing  the  threshold  you  found  yourself  more  or 
less  in  the  kitchen,  encompassed  with  culinary  odors. 
Tins,  however,  was  no  great  matter,  for  at  the  Pen- 
sion Beaurepas  there  was  no  attempt  at  gentility  or 
at  concealment  of  the  domestic  machinery.  The  lat- 
ter was  of  a  very  simple  sort.  Madame  Beaurepas 
was  an  excellent  little  old  woman,  —  she  was  very 
far  advanced  in  life,  and  had  been  keeping  a  pension 
for  forty  years,  —  whose  only  faults  were  that  she 
was  slightly  deaf,  that  she  was  fond  of  a  surreptitious 
pinch  of  snuff,  and  that,  at  the  age  of  seventy-three, 
she  wore  flowers  in  her  cap.  There  was  a  tradition 
in  the  house  that  she  was  not  so  deaf  as  she  pre- 
tended; that  she  feigned  this  infirmity  in  order  to 
possess  herself  of  the  secrets  of  her  lodgers.  But  I 
never  subscribed  to  this  theory ;  I  am  convinced  that 
Madame  Beaurepas  had  outlived  the  period  of  indis- 
creet curiosity.  She  was  a  philosopher,  on  a  matter- 
of-fact  basis ;  she  had  been  having  lodgers  for  forty 
years,  and  all  that  she  asked  of  them  was  that  they 
should  pay  their  bills,  make  use  of  the  door-mat,  and 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  141 

fold  their  napkins.  She  cared  very  little  for  their 
secrets.  "  J'en  ai  vus  de  toutes  les  couleurs,"  she  said 
to  me.  She  had  quite  ceased  to  care  for  individuals ; 
she  cared  only  for  types,  for  categories.  Her  large 
observation  had  made  her  acquainted  with  a  great 
number,  and  her  mind  was  a  complete  collection  of 
"heads."  She  flattered  herself  that  she  knew  at  a 
glance  where  to  pigeon-hole  a  new-comer,  and  if  she 
made  any  mistakes  her  deportment  never  betrayed 
them.  I  think  that,  as  regards  individuals,  she  had 
neither  likes  nor  dislikes  ;  but  she  was  capable  of  ex- 
pressing esteem  or  contempt  for  a  species.  She  had 
her  own  ways,  I  suppose,  of  manifesting  her  approval, 
but  her  manner  of  indicating  the  reverse  was  simple 
and  unvarying.  "  Je  trouve  que  c'est  deplace*  1 "  — 
this  exhausted  her  view  of  the  matter.  If  one  of  her 
inmates  had  put  arsenic  into  the  pot-au-feut  I  believe 
Madame  Beaurepas  would  have  contented  herself 
with  remarking  that  the  proceeding  was  misplaced. 
The  line  of  misconduct  to  which  she  most  objected 
was  an  undue  assumption  of  gentility ;  she  had  no 
patience  with  boarders  who  gave  themselves  airs. 
"  When  people  come  chez  moi,  it  is  not  to  cut  a  figure 
in  the  world  ;  I  have  never  had  that  illusion,"  I 
remember  hearing  her  say ;  "  and  when  you  pay  seven 
francs  a  day,  tout  compris,  it  comprises  everything  but 
the  right  to  look  down  upon  the  others.  "  But  there 
are  people  who,  the  less  they  pay,  the  more  they  take 
themselves  au  stfrieux.  My  most  difficult  boarders 
have  always  been  those  who  have  had  the  little  rooms." 


142  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

Madame  Beaurepas  had  a  niece,  a  young  woman  of 
some  forty  odd  years ;  and  the  two  ladies,  with  the 
assistance  of  a  couple  of  thick- waisted,  red-armed 
peasant  women,  kept  the  house  going.  If  on  your 
exits  and  entrances  you  peeped  into  the  kitchen,  it 
made  very  little  difference;  for  Celestine,  the  cook, 
had  no  pretension  to  be  an  invisible  functionary  or 
to  deal  in  occult  methods.  She  was  always  at  your 
service,  with  a  grateful  grin :  she  blacked  your  boots ; 
she  trudged  off  to  fetch  a  cab ;  she  would  have  car- 
ried your  baggage,  if  you  had  allowed  her,  on  her 
broad  little  back.  She  was  always  tramping  in  and 
out,  between  her  kitchen  and  the  fountain  in  the 
place,  where  it  often  seemed  to  me  that  a  large  part 
of  the  preparation  for  our  dinner  went  forward,  —  the 
wringing  out  of  towels  and  table-cloths,  the  washing 
of  potatoes  and  cabbages,  the  scouring  of  saucepans 
and  cleansing  of  water-bottles.  You  enjoyed,  from 
the  door-step,  a  perpetual  back  view  of  Celestine  and 
of  her  large,  loose,  woollen  ankles,  as  she  craned,  from 
the  waist,  over  into  the  fountain,  and  dabbled  in  her 
various  utensils.  This  sounds  as  if  life  went  on  in  a 
very  make-shift  fashion  at  the  Pension  Beaurepas,  — 
as  if  the  tone  of  the  establishment  were  sordid.  But 
such  was  not  at  all  the  case.  We  were  simply  very 
bourgeois ;  we  practised  the  good  old  Genevese  prin- 
ciple of  not  sacrificing  to  appearances.  This  is  an 
excellent  principle  —  when  you  have  the  reality. 
We  had  the  reality  at  the  Pension  Beaurepas:  we 
had  it  in  the  shape  of  soft,  short  beds,  equipped  with 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  U REP  AS.  143 

fluffy  duvets;  of  admirable  coffee,  served  to  us  in  the 
morning  by  Celestine  in  person,  as  we  lay  recumbent 
on  these  downy  couches  ;  of  copious,  wholesome,  suc- 
culent dinners,  conformable  to  the  best  provincial 
traditions.  For  myself,  I  thought  the  Pension  Beau- 
repas  picturesque,  and  this,  with  me,  at  that  time 
was  a  great  word.  I  was  young  and  ingenuous;  I 
had  just  come  from  America.  I  wished  to  perfect 
myself  in  the  French  tongue,  and  I  innocently 
believed  that  French  tongues  might  be  found  in  Swiss 
mouths.  I  used  to  go  to  lectures  at  the  Academy, 
and  come  home  with  a  violent  appetite.  I  always 
enjoyed  my  morning  walk  across  the  long  bridge 
(there  was  only  one,  just  there,  in  those  days)  which 
spans  the  deep  blue  outgush  of  the  lake,  and  up  the 
dark,  steep  streets  of  the  old  Calvinistic  city.  The 
garden  faced  this  way,  toward  the  lake  and  the  old 
town ;  and  this  was  the  pleasantest  approach  to  the 
house.  There  was  a  high  wall,  with  a  double  gate 
in  the  middle,  flanked  by  a  couple  of  ancient  massive 
posts ;  the  big  rusty  grille  contained  some  old-fash- 
ioned iron-work.  The  garden  was  rather  mouldy  and 
weedy,  tangled  and  untended,  but  it  contained  a  little 
thin-flowing  fountain,  several  green  benches,  a  rickety 
little  table  of  the  same  complexion,  and  three  orange- 
trees,  in  tubs,  which  were  deposited  as  effectively  as 
possible  in  front  of  the  windows  of  the  salon. 


144  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 


II. 


As  commonly  happens  in  boarding-houses,  the 
rustle  of  petticoats  was,  at  the  Pension  Beaurepas, 
the  most  familiar  form  of  the  human  tread.  There 
was  the  usual  allotment  of  economical  widows  and 
old  maids,  and  to  maintain  the  balance  of  the  sexes 
there  were  only  an  old  Frenchman  and  a  young 
American.  It  hardly  made  the  matter  easier  that 
the  old  Frenchman  came  from  Lausanne.  He  was  a 
native  of  that  estimable  town,  but  he  had  once  spent 
six  months  in  Paris,  he  had  tasted  of  the  tree  of  knowl- 
edge ;  he  had  got  beyond  Lausanne,  whose  resources 
he  pronounced  inadequate.  Lausanne,  as  he  said, 
"  mangimit  d'agrtfments"  When  obliged,  for  reasons 
which  he  never  specified,  to  bring  his  residence  in 
Paris  to  a  close,  he  had  fallen  back  on  Geneva ;  he 
had  broken  his  fall  at  the  Pension  Beaurepas.  Geneva 
was,  after  all,  more  like  Paris,  and  at  a  Genevese 
boarding-house  there  were  sure  to  be  plenty  of  Amer- 
icans with  whom  one  could  talk  about  the  French 
metropolis.  M.  Pigeonneau  was  a  little  lean  man, 
with  a  large,  narrow  nose,  who  sat  a  great  deal  in  the 
garden,  reading  with  the  aid  of  a  large  magnifying 
glass  a  volume  from  the  cabinet  de  lecture. 

One  day,  a  fortnight  after  my  arrival  at  the  Pension 
Beaurepas,  I  came  back  rather  earlier  than  usual  from 
my  academic  session ;  it  wanted  half  an  hour  of  the 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  145 

midday  breakfast.  I  went  into  the  salon  with  the 
design  of  possessing  myself  of  the  day's  Galignani 
before  one  of  the  little  English  old  maids  should  have 
removed  it  to  her  virginal  bower,  —  a  privilege  to 
which  Madame '  Beaurepas  frequently  alluded  as  one 
of  the  attractions  of  the  establishment.  In  the  salon 
I  found  a  new-comer,  a  tall  gentleman  in  a  high  black 
hat,  whom  I  immediately  recognized  as  a  compatriot. 
I  had  often  seen  him,  or  his  equivalent,  in  the  hotel 
parlors  of  my  native  land.  He  apparently  supposed 
himself  to  be  at  the  present  moment  in  a  hotel  parlor ; 
his  hat  was  on  his  head,  or,  rather,  half  off  it, — 
pushed  back  from  his  forehead,  and  rather  suspended 
than  poised.  He  stood  before  a  table  on  which  old 
newspapers  were  scattered,  one  of  which  he  had  taken 
up  and,  with  his  eye-glass  on  his  nose,  was  holding 
out  at  arm's-length.  It  was  that  honorable  but 
extremely  diminutive  sheet,  the  Journal  de  Genbve,  a 
newspaper  of  about  the  size  of  a  pocket-handkerchief. 
As  I  drew  near,  looking  for  my  Galignani,  the  tall 
gentleman  gave  me,  over  the  top  of  his  eye-glass,  a 
somewhat  solemn  stare.  Presently,  however,  before 
I  had  time  to  lay  my  hand  on  the  object  of  my  search, 
he  silently  offered  me  the  Journal  de  Geneve. 

"  It  appears,"   he   said,  "  to  be  the  paper  of  the 
country." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I  believe  it 's  the  best." 
He  gazed  at  it  again,  still  holding  it  at  arm's-length, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  looking-glass.     "  Well,"  he  said, 
"  I  suppose  it 's  natural  a  small  country  should  have 


146  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

small  papers.  You  could  wrap  it  up,  mountains  and 
all,  in  one  of  our  dailies ! " 

I  found  niy  Galignani  and  went  off  with  it  into  the 
garden,  where  I  seated  myself  on  a  bench  in  the 
shade.  Presently  I  saw  the  .tall  gentleman  in  the 
hat  appear  in  one  of  the  open  windows  of  the  salon, 
and  stand  there  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his 
legs  a  little  apart.  He  looked  very  much  bored,  and 
—  I  don't  know  why  —  I  immediately  began  to  feel 
sorry  for  him.  He  was  not  at  all  a  picturesque  per- 
sonage ;  he  looked  like  a  jaded,  faded  man  of  business. 
But  after  a  little  he  came  into  the  garden  and  began 
to  stroll  about;  and  then  his  restless,  unoccupied  car- 
riage, and  the  vague,  unacquainted  manner  in  which 
his  eyes  wandered  over  the  place,  seemed  to  make  it 
proper  that,  as  an  older  resident,  I  should  exercise  a 
certain  hospitality.  I  said  something  to  him,  and  he 
came  and  sat  down  beside  me  on  my  bench,  clasping 
one  of  his  long  knees  in  his  hands. 

"  When  is  it  this  big  breakfast  of  theirs  comes  off  ? " 
he  inquired.  "  That 's  what  I  call  it,  —  the  little 
breakfast  and  the  big  breakfast.  I  never  thought  I 
should  live  to  see  the  time  when  I  should  care  to  eat 
two  breakfasts.  But  a  man  's  glad  to  do  anything, 
over  here." 

"  For  myself,"  I  observed,  "  I  find  plenty  to  do." 

He  turned  his  head  and  glanced  at  me  with  a  dry, 
deliberate,  kind-looking  eye.  "  You  're  getting  used 
to  the  life,  are  you  ? " 

"  I  like  the  life  very  much,"  I  answered,  laughing. 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  147 

"  How  long  have  you  tried  it  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  in  this  place  ? " 

"  Well,  I  mean  anywhere.  It  seems  to  me  pretty 
much  the  same  all  over." 

"  I  have  been  in  this  house  only  a  fortnight,"  I 
said. 

"  Well,  what  should  you  say,  from  what  you  have 
seen  ? "  my  companion  asked. 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  you  can  see  all  there  is  immediately. 
It 's  very  simple." 

"  Sweet  simplicity,  eh  ?  I  'm  afraid  my  two  ladies 
will  find  it  too  simple." 

"  Everything  is  very  good,"  I  went  on.  "  And  Mad- 
ame Beaurepas  is  a  charming  old  woman.  And  then 
it 's  very  cheap." 

"  Cheap,  is  it  ? "  my  friend  repeated  meditatively. 

"  Does  n't  it  strike  you  so  ? "  I  asked.  I  thought  it 
very  possible  he  had  not  inquired  the  terms.  But  he 
appeared  not  to  have  heard  me ;  he  sat  there,  clasping 
his  knee  and  blinking,  in  a  contemplative  manner,  at 
the  sunshine. 

"  Are  you  from  the  United  States,  sir  ? "  he  pres- 
ently demanded,  turning  his  head  again. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  replied,  and  I  mentioned  the  place  of 
my  nativity. 

"  I  presumed,"  he  said,  "  that  you  were  American, 
or  English.  I  'm  from  the  United  States  myself ; 
from  New  York  City.  Many  of  our  people  here  ? " 

"  Not  so  many  as,  I  believe,  there  have  sometimes 
been.  There  are  two  or  three  ladies." 


148  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

"Well,"  my  interlocutor  declared,  "I  am  very  fond 
of  ladies'  society.  I  think  when  it's  nice  there's 
nothing  comes  up  to  it.  I've  got  two  ladies  here 
myself ;  I  must  make  you  acquainted  with  them." 

I  rejoined  that  I  should  be  delighted,  and  I  in- 
quired of  my  friend  whether  he  had  been  long  in 
Europe. 

"  Well,  it  seems  precious  long,"  he  said,  "  but  my 
time's  not  up  yet.  We  have  been  here  fourteen 
weeks  and  a  half." 

"  Are  you  travelling  for  pleasure  ? "  I  asked. 

My  companion  turned  his  head  again  and  looked 
at  me,  —  looked  at  me  so  long  in  silence  that  I  at  last 
also  turned  and  met  his  eyes. 

"]STo,  sir,"  he  said,  presently.  "!N~o,  sir,"  he  re- 
peated, after  a  considerable  interval. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  I,  for  there  was  something  so 
solemn  in  his  tone  that  I  feared  I  had  been  indis- 
creet. 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  ejaculation ;  he  simply 
continued  to  look  at  me.  "  I  'm  travelling,"  he  said, 
at  last,  "  to  please  the  doctors.  They  seemed  to  think 
they  would  like  it." 

"  Ah,  they  sent  you  abroad  for  your  health." 

"  They  sent  me  abroad  because  they  were  so  con- 
foundedly puzzled  they  didn't  know  what  else  to 
do." 

"  That 's  often  the  best  thing,"  I  ventured  to  re- 
mark. 

"  It  was  a  confession  of  weakness ;  they  wanted  me 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  149 

to  stop  plaguing  them.  They  did  n't  know  enough  to 
cure  ine,  and  that 's  the  way  they  thought  they  would 
get  out  of  it.  I  wanted  to  be  cured,  —  I  didn't 
want  to  be  transported.  I  had  n't  done  any  harm." 

I  assented  to  the  general  proposition  of  the  ineffi- 
ciency of  doctors,  and  asked  my  companion  if  he  had 
been  seriously  ill. 

"  I  did  n't  sleep,"  he  said,  after  some  delay. 

"  Ah,  that 's  very  annoying.  I  suppose  you  were 
overworked." 

"  I  did  n't  eat ;  I  took  no  interest  in  my  food." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  both  eat  and  sleep  now,"  I 
said. 

"  I  could  n't  hold  a  pen,"  my  neighbor  went  on.  "I 
could  n't  sit  still.  I  could  n't  walk  from  my  house  to 
the  cars,  —  and  it's  only  a  little  way.  I  lost  my 
interest  in  business." 

"  You  needed  a  holiday,"  I  observed. 

"  That 's  what  the  doctors  said.  It  was  n't  so  very 
smart  of  them.  I  had  been  paying  strict  attention  to 
business  for  twenty-three  years." 

"  In  all  that  time  you  have  never  had  a  holiday  ? " 
I  exclaimed,  with  horror. 

My  "companion  waited  a  little.  "  Sundays,"  he 
said  at  last. 

"  No  wonder,  then,  you  were  out  of  sorts." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  my  friend,  "  I  should  n't  have  been 
where  I  was  three  years  ago  if  I  had  spent  my  time 
travelling  round  Europe.  I  was  in  a  very  advan- 
tageous position.  I  did  a  very  large  business.  I  was 


150  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

considerably  interested  in  lumber."  He  paused, 
turned  his  head,  and  looked  at  me  a  moment.  "  Have 
you  any  business  interests  yourself  ? "  I  answered 
that  I  had  none,  and  he  went  on  again,  slowly,  softly, 
deliberately.  "  Well,  sir,  perhaps  you  are  not  aware 
that  business  in  the  United  States  is  not  what  it  was 
a  short  time  since.  Business  interests  are  very  inse- 
cure. There  seems  to  be  a  general  falling-off.  Dif- 
ferent parties  offer  different  explanations  of  the  fact, 
but  so  far  as  I  am  aware  none  of  their  observations 
have  set  things  going  again."  I  ingeniously  intimated 
that  if  business  was  dull  it  was  a  good  time  for  com- 
ing away ;  whereupon  my  neighbor  threw  back  his 
head  and  stretched  his  legs  a  while.  "  Well,  sir, 
that 's  one  view  of  the  matter,  certainly.  There  's 
something  to  be  said  for  that.  These  things  should 
be  looked  at  all  round.  That 's  the  ground  my  wife 
took.  That 's  the  ground,"  he  added  in  a  moment, 
"  that  a  lady  would  naturally  take,"  and  he  gave  a 
little  dry  laugh. 

"  You  think  it 's  slightly  illogical,"  I  remarked. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  ground  I  took  was  that  the  worse  a 
man's  business  is,  the  more  it  requires  looking  after. 
I  should  n't  want  to  go  out  to  take  a  walk  —  not  even 
to  go  to  church  —  if  my  house  was  on  fire.  My  firm 
is  not  doing  the  business  it  was ;  it 's  like  a  sick 
child ;  it  wants  nursing.  What  I  wanted  the  doc- 
tors to  do  was  to  fix  me  up,  so  that  I  could  go  on  at 
home.  I  'd  have  taken  anything  they  'd  have  given 
me,  and  as  many  times  a  day.  I  wanted  to  be  right 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  151 

there  ;  I  had  my  reasons  ;  I  have  them  still.  But  I 
came  off,  all  the  same,"  said  my  friend,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile. 

I  was  a  great  deal  younger  than  he,  but  there  was 
something  so  simple  and  communicative  in  his  tone, 
so  expressive  of  a  desire  to  fraternize,  and  so  exempt 
from  any  theory  of  human  differences,  that  I  quite 
forgot  his  seniority,  and  found  myself  offering  him 
paternal  advice.  "  Don't  think  about  all  that,"  said 
I.  "  Simply  enjoy  yourself,  amuse  yourself,  get  well. 
Travel  about  and  see  Europe.  At  the  end  of  a  year, 
by  the  time  you  are  ready  to  go  home,  things  will 
have  improved  over  there,  and  you  will  be  quite  well 
and  happy." 

My  friend  laid  his  hand  on  my  knee ;  he  looked  at 
me  for  some  moments,  and  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
say,  "  You  are  very  young  ! "  But  he  said  pres- 
ently, "  You  have  got  used  to  Europe,  any  way  ! " 


III. 


AT  breakfast  I  encountered  his  ladies,  —  his  wife 
and  daughter.  They  were  placed,  however,  at  a  dis- 
tance from  me,  and  it  was  not  until  the  pensionnaires 
had  dispersed,  and  some  of  them,  according  to  cus- 
tom, had  come  out  into  the  garden,  that  he  had  an 
opportunity  of  making  me  acquainted  with  them. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my  daugh- 
ter ? "  he  said,  moved  apparently  by  a  paternal  incli- 


152  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

nation  to  provide  this  young  lady  with  social  diversion. 
She  was  standing,  with  her  mother,  in  one  of  the 
paths,  looking  about,  with  no  great  complacency,  as 
I  imagined,  at  the  homely  characteristics  of  the  place, 
and  old  M.  Pigeonneau  was  hovering  near,  hesitating 
apparently  between  the  desire  to  be  urbane  and  the 
absence  of  a  pretext.  "  Mrs.  Euck,  —  Miss  Sophy 
Ruck,"  said  my  friend,  leading  me  up. 

Mrs.  Euck  was  a  large,  plump,  light-colored  per- 
son, with  a  smooth,  fair  face,  a  somnolent  eye,  and 
an  elaborate  coiffure.  Miss  Sophy  was  a  girl  of  one 
and  twenty,  very  small  and  very  pretty,  —  what  I 
suppose  would  have  been  called  a  lively  brunette. 
Both  of  these  ladies  were  attired  in  black  silk  dresses, 
very  much  trimmed  ;  they  had  an  air  of  the  highest 
elegance. 

"  Do  you  think  highly  of  this  pension  ?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Euck,  after  a  few  preliminaries. 

"  It 's  a  little  rough,  but  it  seems  to  me  comfort- 
able," I  answered. 

"  Does  it  take  a  high  rank  in  Geneva  ? "  Mrs.  Euck 
pursued. 

"  I  imagine  it  enjoys  a  very  fair  fame,"  I  said, 
smiling. 

"  I  should  never  dream  of  comparing  it  to  a  New 
York  boarding-house,"  said  Mrs.  Euck. 

"  It's  quite  a  different  style,"  her  daughter  observed. 
Miss  Euck  had  folded  her  arms  ;  she  was  holding  her 
elbows  with  a  pair  of  white  little  hands,  and  she  was 
tapping  the  ground  with  a  pretty  little  foot. 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  153 

"  We  hardly  expected  to  come  to  a  pension,"  said 
Mrs.  Ruck.  "But  we  thought  \ve  would  try;  we 
had  heard  so  much  about  Swiss  pensions.  I  was 
saying  to  Mr.  Ruck  that  I  wondered  whether  this 
was  a  favorable  specimen.  I  was  afraid  we  might 
have  made  a  mistake." 

"  We  knew  some  people  who  had  been  here  ;  they 
thought  everything  of  Madame  Beaurepas,"  said  Miss 
Sophy.  "  They  said  she  was  a  real  friend." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker,  —  perhaps  you  have  heard 
her  speak  of  them,"  Mrs.  Ruck  pursued. 

"  Madame  Beaurepas  has  had  a  great  many  Ameri- 
cans ;  she  is  very  fond  of  Americans,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  should  think  she  would  be, 
if  she  compares  them  with  some  others." 

"  Mother  is  always  comparing,"  observed  Miss 
Ruck. 

"  Of  course  I  am  always  comparing,"  rejoined  the 
elder  lady.  "  I  never  had  a  chance  till  now ;  I  never 
knew  my  privileges.  Give  me  an  American ! "  And 
Mrs.  Ruck  indulged  in  a  little  laugh. 

"Well,  I  must  say  there  are  some  things  I  like 
over  here,"  said  Miss  Sophy,  with  courage.  And 
indeed  I  could  see  that  she  was  a  young  woman  of 
great  decision. 

"  You  like  the  shops,  —  that 's  what  you  like,"  her 
father  affirmed. 

The  young  lady  addressed  herself  to  me,  without 
heeding  this  remark:  "I  suppose  you  feel  quite  at 
home  here."  • 


154  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

"  Oh,  he  likes  it ;  he  has  got  used  to  the  life ! " 
exclaimed  Mr.  Buck. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  teach  Mr.  Euck,"  said  his  wife. 
"  It  seems  as  if  he  could  n't  get  used  to  anything." 

"  I  'm  used  to  you,  my  dear,"  the  husband  retorted, 
giving  me  a  humorous  look. 

"  He  's  intensely  restless,"  continued  Mrs.  Euck. 
"  That 's  what  made  me  want  to  come  to  a  pension. 
I  thought  he  would  settle  down  more." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  used  to  you,  after  all,"  said 
her  husband. 

In  view  of  a  possible  exchange  of  conjugal  repartee 
I  took  refuge  in  conversation  with  Miss  Euck,  who 
seemed  perfectly  able  to  play  her  part  in  any  collo- 
quy. I  learned  from  this  young  lady  that,  with  her 
parents,  after  visiting  the  British  islands,  she  had 
been  spending  a  month  in  Paris,  and  that  she  thought 
she  should  have  died  when  she  left  that  city.  "  I 
hung  out  of  the  carriage,  when  we  left  the  hotel," 
said  Miss  Euck ;  "  I  assure  you  I  did.  And  mother 
did,  too." 

"  Out  of  the  other  window,  I  hope,"  said  I. 

"Yes,  one  out  of  each  window,"  she  replied,  promptly. 
"  Father  had  hard  work,  I  can  tell  you.  We  had  n't 
half  finished;  there  were  ever  so  many  places  we 
wanted  to  go  to." 

"  Your  father  insisted  on  coming  away  ? " 

"  Yes ;  after  we  had  been  there  about  a  month  he 
said  he  had  enough.  He 's  fearfully  restless ;  he 's  very 
much  out  of  health.  Mother  and  I  said  to  him  that 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  155 

if  he  was  restless  in  Paris  he  need  n't  hope  for  peace 
anywhere.  We  don't  mean  to  leave  him  alone  till  he 
takes  us  back."  There  was  an  air  of  keen  resolution 
in  Miss  Ruck's  pretty  face,  of  lucid  apprehension  of 
desirable  ends,  which  made  me,  as  she  pronounced 
these  words,  direct  a  glance  of  covert  compassion 
toward  her  poor  recalcitrant  father.  He  had  walked 
away  a  little  with  his  wife,  and  I  saw  only  his  back 
and  his  stooping,  patient-looking  shoulders,  whose 
air  of  acute  resignation  was  thrown  into  relief  by  the 
voluminous  tranquillity  of  Mrs.  Ruck.  "  He  will  have 
to  take  us  back  in  September,  any  way,"  the  young 
girl  pursued ;  "  he  will  have  to  take  us  back  to  get 
some  things  we  have  ordered." 

"  Have  you  ordered  a  great  many  things  ? "  I  asked, 
jocosely. 

"  Well,  I  guess  we  have  ordered  some.  Of  course 
we  wanted  to  take  advantage  of  being  in  Paris, — 
ladies  always  do.  We  have  left  the  principal  things 
till  we  go  back.  Of  course  that  is  the  principal 
interest  for  ladies.  Mother  said  she  should  feel  so 
shabby,  if  she  just  passed  through.  We  have  prom- 
ised all  the  people  to  be  back  in  September,  and  I 
never  broke  a  promise  yet.  So  Mr.  Ruck  has  got  to 
make  his  plans  accordingly." 

"  And  what  are  his  plans  ? " 

"  I  don't  know ;  he  does  n't  seem  able  to  make  any. 
His  great  idea  was  to  get  to  Geneva ;  but  now  that 
he  has  got  here  he  doesn't  seem  to  care.  It's  the 
effect  of  ill  health.  He  used  to  be  so  bright;  but 


156  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

now  he  is  quite  subdued.  It 's  about  time  he  should 
improve,  anyway.  We  went  out  last  night  to  look  at 
the  jewellers'  windows,  —  in  that  street  behind  the 
hotel.  I  had  always  heard  of  those  jewellers'  windows. 
We  saw  some  lovely  things,  but  it  didn't  seem  to 
rouse  father.  He  '11  get  tired  of  Geneva  sooner  than 
he  did  of  Paris." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "there  are  finer  things  here  than  the 
jewellers'  windows.  We  are  very  near  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  scenery  in  Europe." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  the  mountains.  Well,  we 
have  seen  plenty  of  mountains  at  home.  We  used 
to  go  to  the  mountains  every  summer.  We  are 
familiar  enough  with  the  mountains.  Are  n't  we, 
mother  ? "  the  young  lady  demanded,  appealing  to 
Mrs.  Euck,  who,  with  her  husband,  had  drawn  near 
again. 

"  Are  n't  we  what  ? "  inquired  the  elder  lady. 

"  Are  n't  we  familiar  with  the  mountains  ? " 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Euck. 

Mr.  Euck,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  gave  me 
a  sociable  wink.  "  There 's  nothing  much  you  can 
tell  them  ! "  he  said. 

The  two  ladies  stood  face  to  face  a  few  moments, 
surveying  each  other's  garments.  "  Don't  you  want 
to  go  out  ? "  the  young  girl  at  last  inquired  of  her 
mother. 

"  Well,  I  think  we  had  better ;  we  have  got  to  go 
up  to  that  place." 

"  To  what  place  ? "  asked  Mr.  Euck. 


THE  PENSION  BEA UREPAS.  157 

"  To  that  jeweller's,—  to  that  big  one." 

"They  all  seemed  big  enough;  they  were  too  big!" 
And  Mr.  Ruck  gave  me  another  wink. 

"  That  one  where  we  saw  the  blue  cross,"  said  his 
daughter. 

"  Oh,  come,  what  do  you  want  of  that  blue  cross  ?  " 
poor  Mr.  Ruck  demanded. 

"  She  wants  to  hang  it  on  a  black  velvet  ribbon 
and  tie  it  round  her  neck,"  said  his  wife. 

"  A  black  velvet  ribbon  ?  No,  I  thank  you  ! "  cried 
the  young  lady.  "Do  you  suppose  I  would  wear  that 
cross  on  a  black  velvet  ribbon  ?  On  a  nice  little  gold 
chain,  if  you  please,  —  a  little  narrow  gold  chain,  like 
an  old-fashioned  watch-chain.  That 's  the  proper 
thing  for  that  blue  cross.  I  know  the  sort  of  chain  I 
mean;  I  'm  going  to  look  for  one.  When  I  want  a 
thing,"  said  Miss  Ruck,  with  decision,  "I  can  gen- 
erally find  it." 

"  Look  here,  Sophy,"  her  father  urged,  "  you  don't 
want  that  blue  cross." 

"  I  do  want  it, —  I  happen  to  want  it."  And  Sophy 
glanced  at  me  with  a  little  laugh. 

Her  laugh,  which  in  itself  was  pretty,  suggested 
that  there  were  various  relations  in  which  one  might 
stand  to  Miss  Ruck  ;  but  I  think  I  was  conscious  of 
a  certain  satisfaction  in  not  occupying  the  paternal 
one.  "  Don't  worry  the  poor  child,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Come  on,  mother,"  said  Miss  Ruck. 

"  "We  are  going  to  look  about  a  little,"  explained 
the  elder  lady  to  me,  by  way  of  taking  leave. 


158  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

"  I  know  what  that  means,"  remarked  Mr.  Buck, 
as  his  companions  moved  away.  He  stood  looking 
at  them  a  moment,  while  he  raised  his  hand  to  his 
head,  behind,  and  stood  rubbing  it  a  little,  with  a 
movement  that  displaced  his  hat.  (I  may  remark  in 
parenthesis  that  I  never  saw  a  hat  more  easily  dis- 
placed than  Mr.  Buck's.)  I  supposed  lie  was  going 
to  say  something  querulous,  but  I  was  mistaken. 
Mr.  Ruck  was  unhappy,  but  he  was  very  good-natured. 
"Well,  they  want  to  pick  up  something,"  he  said. 
"  That 's  the  principal  interest,  for  ladies." 


IV. 


MR,  RUCK  distinguished  me,  as  the  French  say. 
He  honored  me  with  his  esteem,  and,  as  the  days 
elapsed,  with  a  large  portion  of  his  confidence. 
Sometimes  he  bored  me  a  little,  for  the  tone  of  his 
conversation  was  not  cheerful,  tending  as  it  did  almost 
exclusively  to  a  melancholy  dirge  over  the  financial 
prostration  of  our  common  country.  "  No,  sir,  busi- 
ness in  the  United  States  is  not  what  it  once  was," 
he  found  occasion  to  remark  several  times  a  day. 
"  There 's  not  the  same  spring,  —  there 's  not  the  same 
hopeful  feeling.  You  can  see  it  in  all  departments." 
He  used  to  sit  by  the  hour  in  the  little  garden  of  the 
pension,  with  a  roll  of  American  newspapers  in  his 
lap  and  his  high  Imt  pushed  back,  swinging  one  of 
his  long  legs  and  reading  the  New, York  Herald.  He 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  159 

paid  a  daily  visit  to  the  American  banker's,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Ehone,  and  remained  there  a  long 
time,  turning  over  the  old  papers  on  the  green  velvet 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  Salon  des  Strangers  and 
fraternizing  with  chance  compatriots.  But  in  spite 
of  these  diversions  his  time  hung  heavily  upon  his 
hands.  I  used  sometimes  to  propose  to  him  to  take 
a  walk ;  but  he  had  a  mortal  horror  of  pedestrianism, 
and  regarded  my  own  taste  for  it  as  a  morbid  form  of 
activity.  "You'll  kill  yourself,  if  you  don't  look 
out,"  he  said,  "  walking  all  over  the  country.  I  don't 
want  to  walk  round  that  way ;  I  ain't  a  postman  ! " 
Briefly  speaking,  Mr.  Euck  had  few  resources.  His 
wife  and  daughter,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  to  be 
supposed,  were  possessed  of  a  good  many  that  could 
not  be  apparent  to  an  unobtrusive  young  man.  They 
also  sat  a  great  deal  in  the  garden  or  in  the  salon,  side 
by  side,  with  folded  hands,  contemplating  material 
objects,  and  were  remarkably  independent  of  most  of 
the  usual  feminine  aids  to  idleness,  —  light  literature, 
tapestry,  the  use  of  the  piano.  They  were,  however, 
much  fonder  of  locomotion  than  their  companion,  and 
I  often  met  them  in  the  Eue  du  Ehone  and  on  the 
quays,  loitering  in  front  of  the  jewellers'  windows. 
They  might  have  had  a  cavalier  in  the  person  of  old 
M.  Pigeonneau,  who  professed  a  high  appreciation  of 
their  charms,  but  who,  owing  to  the  absence  of  a 
common  idiom,  was  deprived  of  the  pleasures  of  inti- 
macy. He  knew  no  English,  and  Mrs.  Euck  and  her 
daughter  had,  as  it  seemed,  an  incurable  mistrust  of 


160  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

the  beautiful  tongue  which,  as  the  old  man  endeavored 
to  impress  upon  them,  was  pre-eminently  the  language 
of  conversation. 

"  They  have  a  tournure  de  princesse,  —  a  distinction 
supreme"  he  said  to  me.  "  One  is  surprised  to  find 
them  in  a  little  pension,  at  seven  francs  a  day." 

"  Oh,  they  don't  come  for  economy,"  I  answered. 
"  They  must  be  rich." 

"  They  don't  come  for  my  beaux  yeux,  —  for  mine," 
said  M.  Pigeonueau,  sadly.  "  Perhaps  it 's  for  yours, 
young  man.  Je  vous  recommande  la  mere." 

I  reflected  a  moment.  "  They  came  on  account  of 
Mr.  Ruck,  —  because  at  hotels  he 's  so  restless." 

M.  Pigeonneau  gave  me  a  knowing  nod.  "  Of 
course  he  is,  with  such  a  wife  as  that !  —  a  femme 
superbe.  Madame  Ruck  is  preserved  in  perfection,  — 
a  miraculous  fraichewr.  I  like  those  large,  fair,  quiet 
women;  they  are  often,  dans  I'intimite,  the  most 
agreeable.  I  '11  warrant  you  that  at  heart  Madame 
Ruck  is  a  finished  coquette." 

"  I  rather  doubt  it,"  I  said. 

"  You  suppose  her  cold  ?     Ne  vous  y  fiez  pas  ! " 

"  It  is  a  matter  in  which  I  have  nothing  at  stake." 

"  You  young  Americans  are  droll,"  said  M.  Pigeon- 
neau ;  "  you  never  have  anything  at  stake  !  But  the 
little  one,  for  example;  I '11  warrant  you  she's  not 
cold.  She  is  admirably  made." 

"  She  is  very  pretty." 

"  '  She  is  very  pretty ! '  Vous  dites  cela  d'un  ton ! 
When  you  pay  compliments  to  Mademoiselle  Ruck, 
I  hope  that 's  not  the  way  you  do  it." 


THE  PENSION  BEA  UREPAS.  161 

"  I  don't  pay  compliments  to  Mademoiselle  Kuck." 

"  Ah,  decidedly,"  said  M.  Pigeonneau,  "  you  young 
Americans  are  droll ! " 

I  should  have  suspected  that  these  two  ladies  would 
not  especially  commend  themselves  to  Madame  Beau- 
repas ;  that  as  a  maitresse  de  salon,  which  she  in  some 
degree  aspired  to  be,  she  would  have  found  them 
wanting  in  a  certain  flexibility  of  deportment.  But 
I  should  have  gone  quite  wrong ;  Madame  Beaurepas 
had  no  fault  at  all  to  find  with  her  new  pensionuaires. 
"  I  have  no  observation  whatever  to  make  about 
them,"  she  said  to  me  one  evening.  "  I  see  nothing 
in  those  ladies  which  is  at  all  deplace.  They  don't 
complain  of  anything ;  they  don't  meddle ;  they  take 
what's  given  them;  they  leave  me  tranquil.  The 
Americans  are  often  like  that.  Often,  but  not, 
always,"  Madame  Beaurepas  pursued.  "We  are  to 
have  a  specimen  to-morrow  of  a  very  different  sort." 

"  An  American  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"Two  Americaines,  —  a  mother  and  a  daughter. 
There  are  Americans  and  Americans :  when  you  are 
d'ifficiles,  you  are  more  so  than  any  one,  and  when  you 
have  pretensions  —  ah,  par  exemple,  it's  serious.  I 
foresee  that  with  this  little  lady  everything  will  be 
serious,  beginning  with  her  cafe  au  lait.  She  has 
been  staying  at  the  Pension  Bonrepos,  —  my  concur- 
rent, you  know,  further  up  the  street;  but  she  is 
coming  away  because  the  coffee  is  bad.  She  holds  to 
her  coffee,  it  appears.  I  don't  know  what  liquid 
Madame  Bonrepos  may  have  invented,  but  we  will 


162  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

do  the  best  we  can  for  her.  Only,  I  know  she  will 
make  ine  des  kistoires  about  something  else.  She 
will  demand  a  new  lamp  for  the  salon ;  vous  allez  voir 
cela.  She  wishes  to  pay  but  eleven  francs  a  day  for 
herself  and  her  daughter,  tout  compris  ;  and  for  their 
eleven  francs  they  expect  to  be  lodged  like  princesses. 
But  she  is  very  '  lady-like/  —  is  n't  that  what  you  call 
it  in  English  ?  Oh,  pour  cela,  she  is  lady-like  ! " 

I  caught  a  glimpse  on  the  morrow  of  this  lady-like 
person,  who  was  arriving  at  her  new  residence  as  I 
came  in  from  a  walk.  She  had  come  in  a  cab,  with 
her  daughter  and  her  luggage ;  and,  with  an  air  of 
perfect  softness  and  serenity,  she  was  disputing  the 
fare  as  she  stood  among  her  boxes,  on  the  steps. 
She  addressed  her  cabman  in  a  very  English  accent, 
but  with  extreme  precision  and  correctness  :  "  I  wish 
to  be  perfectly  reasonable,  but  I  don't  wish  to  en- 
courage you  in  exorbitant  demands.  With  a  franc 
and  a  half  you  are  sufficiently  paid.  It  is  not  the 
custom  at  Geneva  to  give  a  pour-boire  for  so  short  a 
drive.  I  have  made  inquiries,  and  I  find  it  is  not  the 
custom,  even  in  the  best  families.  I  am  a  stranger, 
yes,  but  I  always  adopt  the  custom  of  the  native 
families.  I  think  it  my  duty  toward  the  natives." 

"  But  I  am  a  native,  too,  moi  !  "  said  the  cabman, 
with  an  angry  laugh. 

"  You  seem  to  me  to  speak  with  a  German  accent," 
continued  the  lady.  "  You  are  probably  from  Basel. 
A  franc  and  a  half  is  sufficient.  I  see  you  have  left 
behind  the  little  red  bag  which  I  asked  you  to  hold 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  163 

between  your  knees  ;  you  will  please  to  go  back  to 
the  other  house  and  get  it.  Very  well,  if  you  are 
impolite  I  will  make  a  complaint  of  you  to-morrow 
at  the  administration.  Aurora,  you  will  find  a  pencil 
in  the  outer  pocket  of  my  embroidered  satchel; 
please  to  write  down  his  number,  —  87 ;  do  you  see  it 
distinctly  ?  —  in  case  we  should  forget  it." 

The  young  lady  addressed  as  "  Aurora  "  —  a  slight, 
fair  girl,  holding  a  large  parcel  of  umbrellas  —  stood 
at  hand  while  this  allocution  went  forward,  but  she 
apparently  gave  no  heed  to  it.  She  stood  looking 
about  her,  in  a  listless  manner,  at  the  front  of  the 
house,  at  the  corridor,  at  Celestine  tucking  up  her 
apron  in  the  door-way,  at  me  as  I  passed  in  amid  the 
disseminated  luggage;  her  mother's  parsimonious 
attitude  seeming  to  produce  in  Miss  Aurora  neither 
sympathy  nor  embarrassment.  At  dinner  the  two 
ladies  were  placed  on  the  same  side  of  the  table  as 
myself,  below  Mrs.  Buck  and  her  daughter,  my  own 
position  being  on  the  right  of  Mr.  Euck.  I  had 
therefore  little  observation  of  Mrs.  Church,  —  such  I 
learned  to  be  her  name,  —  but  I  occasionally  heard 
her  soft,  distinct  voice. 

"  White  wine,  if  you  please ;  we  prefer  white  wine. 
There  is  none  on  the  table  ?  Then  you  will  please  to 
get  some,  and  to  remember  to  place  a  fcottle  of  it 
always  here,  between  my  daughter  and  myself." 

"  That  lady  seems  to  know  what  she  wants,"  said 
Mr.  Euck,  "  and  she  speaks  so  I  can  understand  her. 
I  can't  understand  every  one,  over  here.  I  should 


1 64  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

like  to  make  that  lady's  acquaintance.  Perhaps  she 
knows  what  /  want,  too  ;  it  seems  hard  to  find  out. 
But  I  don't  want  any  of  their  sour  white  wine ;  that's 
one  of  the  things  I  don't  want.  I  expect  she  '11  be 
an  addition  to  the  pension." 

Mr.  Euck  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Church 
that  evening  in  the  parlor,  being  presented  to  her  by 
his  wife,  who  presumed  on  the  rights  conferred  upon 
herself  by  the  mutual  proximity,  at  table,  of  the  two 
ladies.  I  suspected  that  in  Mrs.  Church's  view  Mrs. 
Euck  presumed  too  far.  The  fugitive  from  the  Pen- 
sion Bonrepos,  as  M.  Pigeonneau  called  her,  was  a 
little  fresh,  plump,  comely  woman,  looking  less  than 
her  age,  with  a  round,  bright,  serious  face.  She  was 
very  simply  and  frugally  dressed,  not  at  all  in  the 
manner  of  Mr.  Euck's  companions,  and  she  had  an 
.air  of  quiet  distinction  which  was  an  excellent  de- 
fensive weapon.  She  exhibited  a  polite  disposition 
to  listen  to  what  Mr.  Euck  might  have  to  say,  but 
her  manner  was  equivalent  to  an  intimation  that 
what  she  valued  least  in  boarding-house  life  was  its 
social  opportunities.  She  had  placed  herself  near  a 
lamp,  after  carefully  screwing  it  and  turning  it  up, 
and  she  had  opened  in  her  lap,  with  the  assistance 
of  a  large  embroidered  marker,  an  octavo  volume 
which  I  perceived  to  be  in  German.  To  Mrs.  Euck 
and  her  daughter  she  was  evidently  a  puzzle,  with 
her  economical  attire  and  her  expensive  culture. 
The  two  younger  ladies,  however,  had  begun  to  fra- 
ternize very  freely,  and  Miss  Euck  presently  went 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  165 

wandering  out  of  the  room  with  her  arm  round  the 
waist  of  Miss  Church.  It  was  a  very  warm  evening ; 
the  long  windows  of  the  salon  stood  wide  open  into 
the  garden,  and  inspired  by  the  balmy  darkness, 
M.  Pigeonneau  and  Mademoiselle  Beaurepas,  a  most 
obliging  little  woman,  who  lisped  and  always  wore 
a  huge  cravat,  declared  they  would  organize  a  fete, 
They  engaged  in  this  undertaking,  and  the  f£te  de- 
veloped itself,  consisting  of  half  a  dozen  red  paper 
lanterns,  hung  about  on  the  trees,  and  of  several 
glasses  of  sirop,  carried  on  a  tray  by  the  stout-armed 
Celestine.  As  the  festival  deepened  to  its  climax  I 
went  out  into  the  garden,  where  M.  Pigeonneau  was 
master  of  ceremonies. 

"But  where  are  those  charming  young  ladies,"  he 
cried,  "  Miss  Ruck  and  the  new-comer,  Vaimable 
transfuge?  Their  absence  has  been  remarked,  and 
they  are  wanting  to  the  brilliancy  of  the  occasion. 
Voyez,  I  have  selected  a  glass  of  syrup  —  a  generous 
glass  —  for  Mademoiselle  Ruck,  and  I  advise  you, 
my  young  friend,  if  you  wish  to  make  a  good 
impression,  to  put  aside  one  which  you  may  offer 
to  the  other  young  lady.  What  is  her  name  ?  Miss 
Church.  I  see;  it's  a  singular  name.  There  is  a 
church  in  which  I  would  willingly  worship  !" 

Mr.  Ruck  presently  came  out  of  the  salon,  having 
concluded  his  interview  with  Mrs.  Church.  Through 
the  open  window  I  saw  the  latter  lady  sitting  under 
the  lamp  with  her  German  octavo,  while  Mrs.  Ruck, 
established,  empty-handed,  in  an  arm-chair  near  her, 
gazed  at  her  with  an  air  of  fascination. 


166  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

"  Well,  I  told  you  she  would  know  what  I  want," 
said  Mr.  Ruck.  "  She  says  I  want  to  go  up  to  Appen- 
zell,  wherever  that  is ;  that  I  want  to  drink  whey  and 
live  in  a  high  latitude  —  what  did  she  call  it  ?  —  a 
high  altitude.  She  seemed  to  think  we  ought  to 
leave  for  Appenzell  to-morrow ;  she  'd  got  it  all  fixed. 
She  says  this  ain't  a  high  enough  lat —  a  high  enough 
altitude.  And  she  says  I  must  n't  go  too  high,  either ; 
that  would  be  just  as  bad ;  she  seems  to  know  just 
the  right  figure.  She  says  she  '11  give  me  a  list  of  the 
hotels  where  we  must  stop,  on  the  way  to  Appenzell. 
I  asked  her  if  she  did  n't  want  to  go  with  us,  but  she 
says  she  'd  rather  sit  still  and  read.  I  expect  she  's 
a  big  reader." 

The  daughter  of  this  accomplished  woman  now 
reappeared,  in  company  with  Miss  Euck,  with  whom 
she  had  been  strolling  through  the  outlying  parts  of 
the  garden. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Euck,  glancing  at  the  red  paper 
lanterns,  "are  they  trying  to  stick  the  flower-pots 
into  the  trees  ?  " 

"  It 's  an  illumination  in  honor  of  our  arrival,"  the 
other  young  girl  rejoined.  "  It 's  a  triumph  over 
Madame  Bonrepos." 

"  Meanwhile,  at  the  Pension  Bonrepos,"  I  ventured 
to  suggest,  "  they  have  put  out  their  lights  ;  they  are 
sitting  in  darkness,  lamenting  your  departure." 

She  looked  at  me,  smiling;  she  was  standing  in 
the  light  that  came  from  the  house.  M.  Pigeonneau, 
meanwhile,  who  had  been  awaiting  his  chance, 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS.  167 

advanced  to  Miss  Buck  with  his  glass  of  syrup. 
"  I  have  kept  it  for  you,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  have  jealously  guarded  it.  It  is  very  delicious  ! " 

Miss  Euck  looked  at  him  and  his  syrup,  without 
making  any  motion  to  take  the  glass.  "  Well,  I 
guess  it 's  sour,"  she  said  in  a  moment,  and  she 
gave  a  little  shake  of  her  head. 

M.  Pigeonneau  stood  staring,  with  his  syrup  in  his 
hand ;  then  he  slowly  turned  away.  He  looked  about 
at  the  rest  of  us,  as  if  to  appeal  from  Miss  Buck's 
insensibility,  and  went  to  deposit  his  rejected  tribute 
on  a  bench. 

"  Won't  you  give  it  to  me  ?  "  asked  Miss  Church, 
in  faultless  French.  "  J'adore  le  sirop,  moi." 

M.  Pigeonneau  came  back  with  alacrity,  and  pre- 
sented the  glass  with  a  very  low  bow.  "I  adore 
good  manners,"  murmured  the  old  man. 

This  incident  caused  me  to  look  at  Miss  Church 
with  quickened  interest.  She  was  not  strikingly 
pretty,  but  in  her  charming,  irregular  face  there  was 
something  brilliant  and  ardent.  Like  her  mother, 
she  was  very  simply  dressed. 

"  She  wants  to  go  to  America,  and  her  mother 
won't  let  her,"  said  Miss  Sophy  to  me,  explaining 
her  companion's  situation. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  —  for  America,"  I  answered, 
laughing. 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  your 
mother,  but  I  think  it 's  shameful,"  Miss  Euck  pur- 
sued. 


168  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

"  Mamma  has  very  good  reasons  ;  she  will  tell  you 
them  all." 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  hear  them,"  said 
Miss  Buck.  "You  have  got  a  right  to  go  to  your 
own  country;  every  one  has  a  right  to  go  to  their 
own  country." 

"  Mamma  is  not  very  patriotic,"  said  Aurora  Church, 
smiling. 

"Well,  I  call  that  dreadful,"  her  companion  de- 
clared. "  I  have  heard  that  there  are  some  Ameri- 
cans like  that,  but  I  never  believed  it." 

"  There  are  all  sorts  of  Americans,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"Aurora's  one  of  the  right  sort,"  rejoined  Miss 
Ruck,  who  had  apparently  become  very  intimate 
with  her  new  friend. 

"  Are  you  very  patriotic  ? "  I  asked  of  the  young 
girl. 

"  She  's  right  down  homesick,"  said  Miss  Sophy ; 
"  she  's  dying  to  go.  If  I  were  you  my  mother  would 
have  to  take  me." 

"  Mamma  is  going  to  take  me  to  Dresden." 

"Well,  I  declare  I  never  heard  of  anything  so 
dreadful ! "  cried  Miss  Euck.  "  It 's  like  something 
in  a  story." 

"  I  never  heard  there  was  anything  very  dreadful 
in  Dresden,"  I  interposed. 

Miss  Euck  looked  at  me  a  moment.  "  Well,  I 
don't  believe  you  are  a  good  American,"  she  replied, 
"  and  I  never  supposed  you  were.  You  had  better 
go  in  there  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Church." 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  169 

"  Dresden  is  really  very  nice,  is  n't  it  ? "  I  asked 
of  her  companion. 

"  It  is  n't  nice  if  you  happen  to  prefer  New  York," 
said  Miss  Sophy.  "  Miss  Church  prefers  New  York. 
Tell  him  you  are  dying  to  see  New  York;  it  will 
make  him  angry,"  she  went  on. 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  make  him  angry,"  said 
Aurora,  smiling. 

"  It  is  only  Miss  Euck  who  can  do  that,"  I  rejoined. 
"  Have  you  been  a  long  time  in  Europe  ?  " 

"  Always." 

"  I  call  that  wicked  !  "  Miss  Sophy  declared. 

"  You  might  be  in  a  worse  place,"  I  continued. 
"  I  find  Europe  very  interesting." 

Miss  Euck  gave  a  little  laugh.  "I  was  saying 
that  you  wanted  to  pass  for  a  European." 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  pass  for  a  Dalmatian." 

Miss  Euck  looked  at  me  a  moment.  "  Well,  you 
had  better  not  come  home,"  she  said.  "  No  one  will 
speak  to  you." 

"  Were  you  born  in  these  countries  ? "  I  asked  of 
her  companion. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  came  to  Europe  when  I  was  a  small 
child.  But  I  remember  America  a  little,  and  it  seems 
delightful." 

"  Wait  till  you  see  it  again.  It 's  just  loo  lovely," 
said  Miss  Sophy. 

"  It 's  the  grandest  country  in  the  world,"  I  added. 

Miss  Euck  began  to  toss  her  head.  "  Corne  away, 
my  dear,"  she  said.  "  If  there  's  a  creature  I  despise 

8 


170  THE  PENSION  BEA  UREPAS. 

it 's  a  man  that  tries  to  say  funny  things  about  his 
own  country." 

"  Don't  you  think  one  can  be  tired  of  Europe  ? " 
Aurora  asked,  lingering. 

"  Possibly,  —  after  many  years." 

"Father  was  tired  of  it  after  three  weeks,"  said 
Miss  Ruck. 

"  I  have  been  here  sixteen  years,"  her  friend  went 
on,  looking  at  me  with  a  charming  intentness,  as  if 
she  had  a  purpose  in  speaking.  "  It  used  to  be  for 
my  education.  I  don't  know  what  it 's  for  now." 

"  She  's  beautifully  educated,"  said  Miss  Euck. 
"She  knows  four  languages." 

"  I  am  not  very  sure  that  I  know  English." 

"  You  should  go  to  Boston ! "  cried  Miss  Sophy. 
"  They  speak  splendidly  in  Boston." 

"  C'est  mon  reve,"  said  Aurora,  still  looking  at  me. 

"  Have  you  been  all  over  Europe,"  I  asked,  —  "  in 
all  the  different  countries  ? " 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "Everywhere  that  there 's 
a  pension.  Mamma  is  devoted  to  pensions.  We 
have  lived,  at  one  time  or  another,  in  every  pension 
in  Europe." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  had  seen  about  enough," 
said  Miss  Ruck. 

"  It 's  a  delightful  way  of  seeing  Europe,"  Aurora 
rejoined,  with  her  brilliant  smile.  "You  may  im- 
agine how  it  has  attached  me  to  the  different  coun- 
tries. I  have  such  charming  souvenirs !  There  is  a 
pension  awaiting  us  now  at  Dresden,  —  eight  francs 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  171 

a  day,  without  wine.  That 's  rather  dear.  Mamma 
means  to  make  them  give  us  wine.  Mamma  is  a 
great  authority  on  pensions ;  she  is  known,  that  way, 
all  over  Europe.  Last  winter  we  were  in  Italy,  and 
she  discovered  one  at  Piacenza,  —  four  francs  a  day. 
We  made  economies." 

"  Your  mother  does  n't  seem  to  mingle  much," 
observed  Miss  Euck,  glancing  through  the  window 
at  the  scholastic  attitude  of  Mrs.  Church. 

"  No,  she  does  n't  mingle,  except  in  the  native 
society.  Though  she  lives  in  pensions,  she  detests 
them." 

"  Why  does  she  live  in  them,  then  ? "  asked  Miss 
Sophy,  rather  resentfully. 

"  Oh,  because  we  are  so  poor ;  it 's  the  cheapest 
way  to  live.  We  have  tried  having  a  cook,  but  the 
cook  always  steals.  Mamma  used  to  set  me  to  watch 
her ;  that 's  the  way  I  passed  my  jeunesse,  —  my  belle 
jeunesse.  We  are  frightfully  poor,"  the  young  girl 
went  on,  with  the  same  strange  frankness,  —  a  curi- 
ous mixture  of  girlish  grace  and  conscious  cynicism. 
"  Nous  n'avons  pas  le  sou.  That 's  one  of  the  reasons 
we  don't  go  back  to  America  ;  mamma  says  we  can't 
afford  to  live  there." 

"  Well,  any  one  can  see  that  you  're  an  American 
girl,"  Miss  Euck  remarked,  in  a  consolatory  manner. 
"  I  can  tell  an  American  girl  a  mile  off.  You  've  got 
the  American  style." 

" I  'm  afraid  I  have  n't  the  American  toilette"  said 
Aurora,  looking  at  the  other's  superior  splendor. 


172  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

"  Well,  your  dress  was  cut  in  France  ;  any  one  can 
see  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aurora,  with  a  laugh,  "  my  dress  was 
cut  in  France,  —  at  Avranches." 

"  Well,  you  Ve  got  a  lovely  figure,  any  way,"  pur- 
sued her  companion. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  young  girl,  "  at  Avranches,  too,  my 
figure  was  admired."  And  she  looked  at  me  askance, 
with  a  certain  coquetry.  But  I  was  an  innocent 
youth,  and  I  only  looked  back  at  her,  wondering. 
She  was  a  great  deal  nicer  than  Miss  Euck,  and  yet 
Miss  Buck  would  not  have  said  that.  "  I  try  to  be 
like  an  American  girl,"  she  continued;  "I  do  my 
best,  though  mamma  does  n't  at  all  encourage  it.  I 
am  very  patriotic.  I  try  to  copy  them,  though 
mamma  has  brought  me  up  a  la  frangaise ;  that  is, 
as  much  as  one  can  in  pensions.  For  instance,  I 
have  never  been  out  of  the  house  without  mamma ; 
oh,  never,  never.  But  sometimes  I  despair ;  Ameri- 
can girls  are  so  wonderfully  frank.  I  can't  be  frank, 
like  that.  I  am  always  afraid.  But  I  do  what  I 
can,  as  you  see.  Excusez  du  peu  ! " 

I  thought  this  young  lady  at  least  as  outspoken  as 
most  of  her  unexpatriated  sisters ;  there  was  some- 
thing almost  comical  in  her  despondency.  But  she 
had  by  no  means  caught,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the 
American  tone.  Whatever  her  tone  was,  however, 
it  had  a  fascination ;  it  was  a  singular  mixture  of 
refinement  and  audacity. 

The  young  ladies  began  to  stroll  about  the  garden 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  173 

again,  and  I  enjoyed  their  society  until  M.  Pigeon- 
neau's  festival  came  to  an  end. 


V. 

MR.  EUCK  did  not  take  his  departure  for  Appenzell 
on  the  morrow,  in  spite  of  the  eagerness  to  witness 
such  an  event  which  he  had  attributed  to  Mrs.  Church. 
He  continued,  on  the  contrary,  for  many  days  after, 
to  hang  about  the  garden,  to  wander  up  to  the  banker's 
and  back  again,  to  engage  in  desultory  conversation 
with  his  fellow-boarders,  and  to  endeavor  to  assuage 
his  constitutional  restlessness  by  perusal  of  the 
American  journals.  But  on  the  morrow  I  had  the 
honor  of  making  Mrs.  Church's  acquaintance.  She 
came  into  the  salon,  after  the  midday  breakfast,  with 
her  German  octavo  under  her  arm,  and  she  appealed 
to  me  for  assistance  in  selecting  a  quiet  corner. 

"  Would  you  very  kindly,"  she  said,  "  move  that 
large  fauteuil  a  little  more  this  way  ?  Not  the 
largest ;  the  one  with  the  little  cushion.  The  fau- 
teuils  here  are  very  insufficient ;  I  must  ask  Madame 
Beaurepas  for  another.  Thank  you  ;  a  little  more  to 
the  left,  please ;  that  will  do.  Are  you  particularly 
engaged  ? "  she  inquired,  after  she  had  seated  herself. 
"  If  not,  I  should  like  to  have  some  conversation  with 
you.  It  is  some  time  since  I  have  met  a  young 
American  of  your  —  what  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  your 
affiliations.  I  have  learned  your  name  from  Madame 
Beaurepas ;  I  think  I  used  to  know  some  of  your 


174  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

people.  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  all  my 
friends.  I  used  to  have  a  charming  little  circle  at 
home,  but  now  I  meet  no  one  I  know.  Don't  you 
think  there  is  a  great  difference  between  the  people 
one  meets  and  the  people  one  would  like  to  meet  ? 
Fortunately,  sometimes,"  added  my  interlocutress 
graciously,  "  it 's  quite  the  same.  I  suppose  you  are 
a  specimen,  a  favorable  specimen,"  she  went  on,  "  of 
young  America.  Tell  me,  now,  what  is  young  Amer- 
ica thinking  of  in  these  days  of  ours  ?  What  are  its 
feelings,  its  opinions,  its  aspirations  ?  What  is  its 
ideal  ?  "  I  had  seated  myself  near  Mrs.  Church  and 
she  had  pointed  this  interrogation  with  the  gaze  of 
her  bright  little  eyes.  I  felt  it  embarrassing  to  be 
treated  as  a  favorable  specimen  of  young  America, 
and  to  be  summoned  to  enunciate  the  mysterious 
formulas  to  which  she  alluded.  Observing  my  hesi- 
tation, Mrs.  Church  clasped  her  hands  on  the  open 
page  of  her  book  and  gave  an  intense,  melancholy 
smile.  "Has  it  an  ideal  ?  "  she  softly  asked.  "  Well, 
we  must  talk  of  this,"  she  went  on,  without  insisting. 
"  Speak,  for  the  present,  for  yourself  simply.  Have 
you  come  to  Europe  with  any  special  design  ? " 

"  Nothing  to  boast  of,"  I  said.  "  I  am  studying  a 
little." 

"  Ah,  I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  You  are  gathering 
up  a  little  European  culture ;  that 's  what  we  lack, 
you  know,  at  home.  No  individual  can  do  much,  of 
course.  But  you  must  not  be  discouraged ;  every 
little  counts." 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  175 

"  I  see  that  you,  at  least,  are  doing  your  part,"  I 
rejoined  gallantly,  dropping  my  eyes  on  my  com- 
panion's learned  volume. 

"Yes,  I  frankly  admit  that  I  am  fond  of  study. 
There  is  no  one,  after  all,  like  the  Germans.  That 
is,  for  facts.  For  opinions  I  by  no  means  always 
go  with  them.  I  form  my  opinions  myself.  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  however,"  Mrs.  Church  continued,  "  that 
I  can  hardly  pretend  to  diffuse  my  acquisitions.  I 
am  afraid  I  am  sadly  selfish ;  I  do  little  to  irrigate 
the  soil.  I  belong  —  I  frankly  confess  it  —  to  the 
class  of  absentees." 

"I  had  the  pleasure,  last  evening,"  I  said,  "of 
making  the  acquaintance  of  your  daughter.  She  told 
me  you  had  been  a  long  time  in  Europe." 

Mrs.  Church  smiled  benignantly.  "Can  one  ever 
be  too  long  ?  We  shall  never  leave  it." 

"  Your  daughter  won't  like  that,"  I  said,  smiling 
too. 

"  Has  she  been  taking  you  into  her  confidence  ? 
She  is  a  more  sensible  young  lady  than  she  some- 
times appears.  I  have  taken  great  pains  with  her ; 
she  is  really  —  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  it  — 
superbly  educated." 

"She  seemed  to  me  a  very  charming  girl,"  I 
rejoined.  "And  I  learned  that  she  speaks  four 
languages." 

"  It  is  not  only  that,"  said  Mrs.  Church,  in  a  tone 
which  suggested  that  this  might  be  a  very  superficial 
species  of  culture.  "  She  has  made  what  we  call  de 


176  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

fortes  tiudes,  —  such  as  I  suppose  you  are  making 
now.  She  is  familiar  with  the  results  of  modern 
science ;  she  keeps  pace  with  the  new  historical 
school." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "she  has  gone  much  further 
than  I!" 

"  You  doubtless  think  I  exaggerate,  and  you  force 
me,  therefore,  to  mention  the  fact  that  I  am  able  to 
speak  of  such  matters  with  a  certain  intelligence." 

"  That  is  very  evident,"  I  said.  "  But  your  daugh- 
ter thinks  you  ought  to  take  her  home."  I  began 
to  fear,  as  soon  as  I  had  uttered  these  words,  that 
they  savored  of  treachery  to  the  young  lady,  but  I 
was  reassured  by  seeing  that  they  produced  on  her 
mother's  placid  countenance  no  symptom  whatever 
of  irritation. 

"  My  daughter  has  her  little  theories,"  Mrs.  Church 
observed ;  "  she  has,  I  may  say,  her  illusions.  And 
what  wonder !  What  would  youth  be  without  its 
illusions  ?  Aurora  has  a  theory  that  she  would  be 
happier  in  New  York,  in  Boston,  in  Philadelphia, 
than  in  one  of  the  charming  old  cities  in  which  our 
lot  is  cast.  But  she  is  mistaken,  that 's  all.  We 
must  allow  our  children  their  illusions,  must  we  not  ? 
But  we  must  watch  over  them." 

Although  she  herself  seemed  proof  against  discom- 
posure, I  found  something  vaguely  irritating  in  her 
soft,  sweet  positiveness. 

"American  cities,"  I  said,  "are  the  paradise  of 
young  girls." 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  177 

"  Do  you  mean,"  asked  Mrs.  Church,  "  that  the 
young  girls  who  come  from  those  places  are  angels?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  resolutely. 

"  This  young  lady  —  what  is  her  odd  name  ?  — 
with  whom  my  daughter  has  formed  a  somewhat 
precipitate  acquaintance  :  is  Miss  Euck  an  angel  ? 
But  I  won't  force  you  to  say  anything  uncivil.  It 
would  be  too  cruel  to  make  a  single  exception." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "at  any  rate,  in  America  young 
girls  have  an  easier  lot.  They  have  much  more 
liberty." 

My  companion  laid  her  hand  for  an  instant  on 
my  arm.  "  My  dear  young  friend,  I  know  America,  I 
know  the  conditions  of  life  there,  so  well.  There  is 
perhaps  no  subject  on  which  I  have  reflected  more 
than  on  our  national  idiosyncrasies." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  don't  approve  of  them,"  said  I, 
a  little  brutally. 

Brutal  indeed  my  proposition  was,  for  Mrs.  Church 
was  not  prepared  to  assent  to  it  in  this  rough  shape. 
She  dropped  her  eyes  on  her  book,  with  an  air  of 
acute  meditation.  Then,  raising  them,  "  We  are  very 
crude,"  she  softly  observed,  — "  we  are  very  crude." 
Lest  even  this  delicately  uttered  statement  should 
seem  to  savor  of  the  vice  that  she  deprecated,  she 
went  on  to  explain :  "  There  are  two  classes  of  minds, 
you  know,  —  those  that  hold  back,  and  those  that 
push  forward.  My  daughter  and  I  are  not  pushers  ; 
we  move  with  little  steps.  We  like  the  old,  trodden 
paths ;  we  like  the  old,  old  world." 

8* 


178  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  "  you.  know  what  you  like  ;  there  is 
a  great  virtue  in  that." 

"  Yes,  we  like  Europe  ;  we  prefer  it.  We  like  the 
opportunities  of  Europe ;  we  like  the  rest.  There  is 
so  much  in  that,  you.  know.  The  world  seems  to  me 
to  be  hurrying,  pressing  forward  so  fiercely,  without 
knowing  where  it  is  going.  '  Whither  ? '  I  often  ask, 
in  my  little  quiet  way.  But  I  have  yet  to  learn  that 
any  one  can  tell  me." 

"  You  're  a  great  conservative,"  I  observed,  while 
I  wondered  whether  I  myself  could  answer  this 
inquiry. 

Mrs.  Church  gave  me  a  smile  which  was  equivalent 
to  a  confession.  "I  wish  to  retain  a  little, — just  a 
little.  Surely,  we  have  done  so  much,  we  might  rest 
awhile ;  we  might  pause.  That  is  all  my  feeling,  — 
just  to  stop  a  little,  to  wait !  I  have  seen  so  many 
changes.  I  wish  to  draw  in,  to  draw  in,  —  to  hold 
back,  to  hold  back." 

"  You  should  n't  hold  your  daughter  back ! "  I 
answered,  laughing  and  getting  up.  I  got  up,  not 
by  way  of  terminating  our  colloquy,  for  I  perceived 
Mrs.  Church's  exposition  of  her  views  to  be  by  no 
means  complete,  but  in  order  to  offer  a  chair  to  Miss 
Aurora,  who  at  this  moment  drew  near.  She  thanked 
me  and  remained  standing,  but  without  at  first,  as  I 
noticed,  meeting  her  mother's  eye. 

"  You  have  been  engaged  with  your  new  acquaint- 
ance, my  dear  ? "  this  lady  inquired. 

"  Yes,  mamma  dear,"  said  the  young  girl  gently. 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  179 

"  Do  you  find  her  very  edifying  ? " 

Aurora  was  silent  a  moment ;  then  she  looked  at 
her  mother.  "I  don't  know,  mamma;  she  is  very 
fresh." 

I  ventured  to  indulge  in  a  respectful  laugh.  "  Your 
mother  has  another  word  for  that.  But  I  must  not," 
I  added,  "  be  crude." 

"  Ah,  vous  m'en  voulez  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Church. 
"  And  yet  I  can't  pretend  I  said  it  in  jest.  I  feel  it 
too  much.  We  have  been  having  a  little  social  dis- 
cussion," she  said  to  her  daughter.  "  There  is  still 
so  much  to  be  said!  And  I  wish,"  she  continued, 
turning  to  me,  "  that  I  could  give  you  our  point  of 
view !  Don't  you  wish,  Aurora,  that  we  could  give 
him  our  point  of  view  ? " 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Aurora. 

"We  consider  ourselves  very  fortunate  in  our  point 
of  view,  don't  we,  dearest  ? "  mamma  demanded. 

"  Very  fortunate  indeed,  mamma." 

"  You  see  we  have  acquired  an  insight  into  Euro- 
pean life,"  the  elder  lady  pursued.  "  We  have  our 
place  at  many  a  European  fireside.  We  find  so 
much  to  esteem,  —  so  much  to  enjoy.  Do  we  not, 
my  daughter  ? " 

"  So  very  much,  mamma,"  the  young  girl  went  on, 
with  a  sort  of  inscrutable,  submissiveness.  I  won- 
dered at  it,  it  offered  so  strange  a  contrast  to  the 
mocking  freedom  of  her  tone  the  night  before;  but 
while  I  wondered,  I  was  careful  not  to  let  my  per- 
plexity take  precedence  of  my  good  manners. 


180  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  ladies  may  have  found  at 
European  firesides,"  I  said,  "  but  there  can  be  very 
little  doubt  what  you  have  left  there." 

Mrs.  Church  got  up  to  acknowledge  my  compli- 
ment. "  We  have  spent  some  charming  hours.  And 
that  reminds  me  that  we  have  just  now  such  an 
occasion  in  prospect.  We  are  to  call  upon  some 
Genevese  friends,  —  the  family  of  the  Pasteur  Galo- 
pin.  They  are  to  go  with  us  to  the  old  library 
at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  where  there  are  some  very 
interesting  documents  of  the  period  of  the  Refor- 
mation; we  are  promised  a  glimpse  of  some  manu- 
scripts of  poor  Servetus,  the  antagonist  and  victim, 
you  know,  of  Calvin.  Here,  of  course,  one  can  only 
speak  of  Calvin  under  one's  breath,  but  some  day, 
when  we  are  more  private,"  and  Mrs.  Church  looked 
round  the  room,  "  I  will  give  you  my  view  of  him. 
I  think  it  has  a  touch  of  originality.  Aurora  is 
familiar  with,  are  you  not,  my .  daughter,  familiar 
with  my  view  of  Calvin  ? " 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Aurora,  with  docility,  while 
the  two  ladies  went  to  prepare  for  their  visit  to  the 
Pasteur  Galopin. 


VI 


"  SHE  has  demanded  a  new  lamp ;  I  told  you  she 
would ! "  This  communication  was  made  me  by 
Madame  Beaurepas  a  couple  of  days  later.  "And 
she  has  asked  for  a  new  tapis  de  lit,  and  she  has 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  181 

requested  me  to  provide  Celestine  with  a  pair  of 
light  shoes.  I  told  her  that,  as  a  general  thing,  cooks 
are  not  shod  with  satin.  That  poor  Celestine  ! " 

"  Mrs.  Church  may  be  exacting,"  I  said,  "  but  she 
is  a  clever  little  woman." 

"  A  lady  who  pays  but  five  francs  and  a  half 
shouldn't  be  too  clever.  C'est  deplace'.  I  don't 
like  the  type." 

"  What  type  do  you  call  Mrs.  Church's  ?  " 

"  Mon  Dieu,"  said  Madame  Beaurepas,  "  c'est  une 
de  ces  mamans  comme  vous  en  avez,  qui  promenent 
leur  fille." 

"  She  is  trying  to  marry  her  daughter  ?  I  don't 
think  she  's  of  that  sort." 

But  Madame  Beaurepas  shrewdly  held  to  her  idea. 
"  She  is  trying  it  in  her  own  way ;  she  does  it  very 
quietly.  She  does  n't  want  an  American  ;  she  wants 
a  foreigner.  And  she  wants  a  mari  sfrieux.  But  she 
is  travelling  over  Europe  in  search  of  one.  She  would 
like  a  magistrate." 

"A  magistrate?" 

"  A  gros  bonnet  of  some  kind ;  a  professor  or  a 
deputy." 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  the  poor  girl,"  I  said, 
laughing. 

"  You  need  n't  pity  her  too  much  ;  she  's  a  sly 
thing." 

"  Ah,  for  that,  no  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  She  's  a 
charming  girl." 

Madame  Beaurepas  gave  an  elderly  grin.     "  She 


182  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

has  hooked  you,  eh  ?     But  the  mother  won't  have 
you." 

I  developed  my  idea,  without  heeding  this  insinua- 
tion.    "  She  's  a  charming  girl,  but  she  is  a  little  odd. 
It 's  a  necessity  of  her  position.     She  is  less  submis- 
sive to  her  mother  than  she  has   to  pretend  to  be.^ 
That 's  in  self-defence ;  it 's  to  make  her  life  possible." 

"  She  wishes  to  get  away  from  her  mother," 
continued  Madame  Beaurepas.  "  She  wishes  to 
courir  les  champs" 

"  She  wishes  to  go  to  America,  her  native  country." 

"  Precisely.     And  she  will  certainly  go." 

"  I  hope  so  ! "  I  rejoined. 

"  Some  fine  morning  —  or  evening —  she  will  go  off 
with  a  young  man ;  probably  with  a  young  Ameri- 
can." 

"  Allons  done  ! "  said  I,  with  disgust. 

"  That  will  be  quite  America  enough,"  pursued  my 
cynical  hostess.  "  I  have  kept  a  boarding-house  for 
forty  years.  I  have  seen  that  type." 

"  Have  such  things  as  that  happened  chez  vous  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Everything  has  happened  chez  moi.  But  nothing 
has  happened  more  than  once.  Therefore  this  won't 
happen  here.  It  will  be  at  the  next  place  they  go  to, 
or  the  next.  Besides,  here  there  is  no  young  Ameri- 
can pour  la  partie, —  none  except  you,  monsieur. 
You  are  susceptible,  but  you  are  too  reasonable." 

"  It 's  lucky  for  you  I  am  reasonable,"  I  answered. 
"  It 's  thanks  to  that  fact  that  you  escape  a  scolding." 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  183 

One  morning,  about  this  time,  instead  of  coming 
back  to  breakfast  at  the  pension,  after  my  lectures  at 
the  Academy,  I  went  to  partake  of  this  meal  with 
a  fellow-student,  at  an  ancient  eating-house  in  the 
collegiate  quarter.  On  separating  from  my  friend,  I 
took  my  way  along  that  charming  public  walk  known 
in  Geneva  as  the  Treille,  a  shady  terrace,  of  immense 
elevation,  overhanging  a  portion  of  the  lower  town. 
There  are  spreading  trees  and  well-worn  benches,  and 
over  the  tiles  and  chimneys  of  the  mile  "basse  there  is 
a  view  of  the  snow-crested  Alps.  On  the  other  side, 
as  you  turn  your  back  to  the  view,  the  promenade  is 
overlooked  by  a  row  of  tall,  sober-faced  hotels,  the 
dwellings  of  the  local  aristocracy.  I  was  very  fond 
of  the  place,  and  often  resorted  to  it  to  stimulate  my 
sense  of  the  picturesque.  Presently,  as  I  lingered 
there  on  this  occasion,  I  became  aware  that  a  gentle- 
man was  seated  not  far  from  where  I  stood,  with  his 
back  to  the  Alpine  chain,  which  this  morning  was 
brilliant  and  distinct,  and  a  newspaper,  unfolded,  in 
his  lap.  He  was  not  reading,  however ;  he  was 
staring  before  him  in  gloomy  contemplation.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  recognized  first  the  newspaper  or 
its  proprietor ;  one,  in  either  case,  would  have  helped 
me  to  identify  the  other.  One  was  the  New  York 
Herald;  the  other,  of  course,  was  Mr. -Buck  As 
I  drew  nearer,  he  transferred  his  eyes  from  the 
stony,  high-featured  masks  of  the  gray  old  houses  on 
the  other  side  of  the  terrace,  and  I  knew  by  the 
expression  of  his  face  just  how  he  had  been  feeling 


184  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UHEPAS. 

about  these  distinguished  abodes.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  their  proprietors  were  a  dusky,  narrow- 
minded,  unsociable  company,  plunging  their  roots  into 
a  superfluous  past.  I  endeavored,  therefore,  as  I  sat 
down  beside  him,  to  suggest  something  more  delect- 
able. 

"  That 's  a  beautiful  view  of  the  Alps,"  I  observed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Euck,  without  moving,  "  I  've 
examined  it.  Fine  thing,  in  its  way,  —  fine  thing. 
Beauties  of  nature,  —  that  sort  of  thing.  We  came 
up  on  purpose  to  look  at  it." 

"  Your  ladies,  then,  have  been  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  they  're  just  walking  round.  They  're 
awfully  restless.  They  keep  saying  I  'm  restless, 
but  I'm  as  quiet  as  a  sleeping  child  to  them.  It 
takes,"  he  added  in  a  moment,  dryly,  "the  form  of 
shopping." 

"  Are  they  shopping  now  ? " 

"  Well,  if  they  ain't,  they  're  trying  to.  They  told 
me  to  sit  here  awhile,  and  they  'd  just  walk  round. 
I  generally  know  what  that  means.  But  that 's  the 
principal  interest  for  ladies,"  he  added,  retracting  his 
irony.  "  We  thought  we  'd  come  up  here  and  see  the 
cathedral ;  Mrs.  Church  seemed  to  think  it  a  dead  loss 
that  we  should  n't  see  the  cathedral,  especially  as  we 
had  n't  seen  many  yet.  And  I  had  to  come  up  to  the 
banker's  any  way.  Well,  we  certainly  saw  the  cathe- 
dral. I  don't  know  as  we  are  any  the  better  for  it, 
and  I  don't  know  as  I  should  know  it  again.  But  we 
saw  it,  any  way.  I  don't  know  as  I  should  want  to 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  185 

go  there  regularly ;  but  I  suppose  it  will  give  us,  in 
conversation,  a  kind  of  hold  on  Mrs.  Church,  eh  ?  I 
guess  we  want  something  of  that  kind.  Well,"  Mr. 
Ruck  continued, "  I  stopped  in  at  the  banker's  to  see 
if  there  was  n't  something,  and  they  handed  me  out 
a  Herald." 

"  I  hope  the  Herald  is  full  of  good  news,"  I  said. 

"  Can't  say  it  is.     D  —  d  bad  news." 

"  Political,"  I  inquired,  "  or  commercial  ?  " 

"  Oh,  hang  politics  !  It's  business,  sir.  There  ain't 
any  business.  It 's  all  gone  to  "  —  and  Mr.  Ruck 
became  profane.  "  Nine  failures  in  one  day.  What 
do  you  say  to  that  ? " 

"  I  hope  they  have  n't  injured  you,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  they  have  n't  helped  me  much.  So  many 
houses  on  fire,  that 's  all.  If  they  happen  to  take 
place  in  your  own  street,  they  don't  increase  the  value 
of  your  property.  When  mine  catches,  I  suppose 
they  '11  write  and  tell  me,  —  one  of  these  days,  when 
they've  got  nothing  else  to  do.  I  didn't  get  a 
blessed  letter  this  morning ;  I  suppose  they  think  I  'in 
having  such  a  good  time  over  here  it 's  a  pity  to 
disturb  me.  If  I  could  attend  to  business  for  about 
half  an  hour,  I  'd  find  out  something.  But  I  can't, 
and  it 's  no  use  talking.  The  state  of  my  health  was 
never  so  unsatisfactory  as  it  was  about  five  o'clock 
this  morning." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  I  said,  "  and  I 
recommend  you  strongly  not  to  think  of  business." 

"I  don't,"  Mr.  Ruck  replied.     "I'm   thinking  of 


186  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

cathedrals ;  I  'm  thinking  of  the  beauties  of  nature. 
Come,"  he  went  on,  turning  round  on  the  bench  and 
leaning  his  elbow  on  the  parapet,  "  I  '11  think  of  those 
mountains  over  there ;  they  are  pretty,  certainly. 
Can't  you  get  over  there  ?  " 

"  Over  where  ? " 

"  Over  to  those  hills.  Don't  they  run  a  train  right 
up  ? " 

"  You  can  go  to  Chamouni,"  I  said.  "  You  can  go 
to  Grindelwald  and  Zermatt  and  fifty  other  places. 
You  can't  go  by  rail,  but  you  can  drive." 

"  All  right,  we  11  drive,  —  and  not  in  a  one-horse 
concern,  either.  Yes,  Chamouni  is  one  of  the  places 
we  put  down. '  I  hope  there  are  a  few  nice  shops  in 
Chamouni."  Mr.  Euck  spoke  with  a  certain  quick- 
ened emphasis,  and  in  a  tone  more  explicitly  humorous 
than  he  commonly  employed.  I  thought  he  was 
excited,  and  yet  he  had  not  the  appearance  of  excite- 
ment. He  looked  like  a  man  who  has  simply  taken, 
in  the  face  of  disaster,  a  sudden,  somewhat  imagi- 
native, resolution  not  to  "  worry."  He  presently 
twisted  himself  about  on  his  bench  again  and  began 
to  watch  for  his  companions.  "  Well,  they  are  walk- 
ing round,"  he  resumed ;  "  I  guess  they  Ve  hit  on 
something,  somewhere.  And  they  Ve  got  a  carriage 
waiting  outside  of  that  archway,  too.  They  seem  to 
do  a  big  business  in  archways  here,  don't  they  ? 
They  like  to  have  a  carriage,  to  carry  home  the  things, 
—  those  ladies  of  mine.  Then  they  're  sure  they  've 
got  them."  The  ladies,  after  this,  to  do  them  justice, 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  187 

were  not  very  long  in  appearing.  They  came  toward 
us,  from  under  the  archway  to  which  Mr.  Kuck  had 
somewhat  invidiously  alluded,  slowly  and  with  a 
rather  exhausted  step  and  expression.  My  com- 
panion looked  at  them  a  moment,  as  they  advanced. 
"They're  tired,"  he  said,  softly.  "When  they're 
tired,  like  that,  it 's  very  expensive." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Kuck,  "  I  'in  glad  you  've  had 
some  company."  Her  husband  looked  at  her,  in 
silence,  through  narrowed  eyelids,  and  I  suspected 
that  this  gracious  observation  on  the  lady's  part  was 
prompted  by  a  restless  conscience. 

Miss  Sophy  glanced  at  me  with  her  little  straight- 
forward air  of  defiance.  "  It  would  have  been  more 
proper  if  we  had  had  the  company.  Why  did  n't  you 
come  after  us,  instead  of  sitting  there  ? "  she  asked  of 
Mr.  Buck's  companion. 

"  I  was  told  by  your  father,"  I  explained,  "  that 
you  were  engaged  in  sacred  rites."  Miss  Kuck  was 
not  gracious,  though  I  doubt  whether  it  was  because 
her  conscience  was  better  than  her  mother's. 

"  Well,  for  a  gentleman  there  is  nothing  so  sacred 
as  ladies'  society,"  replied  Miss  Kuck,  in  the  manner 
of  a  person  accustomed  to  giving  neat  retorts. 

"  I  suppose  you  refer  to  the  cathedral,"  said  her 
mother.  "  Well,  I  must  say,  we  did  n't  go  back  there. 
I  don't  know  what  it  may  be  of  a  Sunday,  but  it  gave 
me  a  chill." 

"  We  discovered  the  loveliest  little  lace-shop," 
observed  the  young  girl,  with  a  serenity  that  was 
superior  to  bravado. 


188  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

Her  father  looked  at  her  awhile;  then  turned 
about  again,  leaning  on  the  parapet,  and  gazed  away 
at  the  "  hills."  "  Well,  it  was  certainly  cheap,"  said 
Mrs.  Ruck,  also  contemplating  the  Alps. 

"  We  are  going  to  Chamouni,"  said  her  husband. 
"  You  have  n't  any  occasion  for  lace  at  Chamouni." 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  to  hear  you  have  decided  to  go 
somewhere,"  rejoined  his  wife.  "  I  don't  want  to  be 
a  fixture  at  a  boarding-house." 

"  You  can  wear  lace  anywhere,"  said  Miss  Ruck, 
"  if  you  put  it  on  right.  That 's  the  great  thing,  with 
lace.  I  don't  think  they  know  how  to  wear  lace  in 
Europe.  I  know  how  I  mean  to  wear  mine ;  but  I 
mean  to  keep  it  till  I  get  home." 

Her  father  transferred  his  melancholy  gaze  to  her 
elaborately  appointed  little  person ;  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  very  new-looking  detail  in  Miss  Ruck's 
appearance.  Then,  in  a  tone  of  voice  quite  out  of 
consonance  with  his  facial  despondency,  "  Have  you 
purchased  a  great  deal  ? "  he  inquired. 

"  I  have  purchased  enough  for  you  to  make  a  fuss 
about." 

"  He  can't  make  a  fuss  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ruck. 

"  Well,  you  11  see  !  "  declared  the  young  girl,  with 
a  little  sharp  laugh. 

But  her  father  went  on,  in  the  same  tone :  "  Have 
you  got  it  in  your  pocket  ?  Why  don't  you  put  it 
on,  —  why  don't  you  hang  it  round  you  ? " 

"  I  '11  hang  it  round  you,  if  you  don't  look  out ! " 
cried  Miss  Sophy. 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  189 

"  Don't  you  want  to  show  it  to  this  gentleman  ? " 
Mr.  Ruck  continued. 

"  Mercy,  how  you  do  talk  about  that  lace ! "  said 
his  wife. 

"  Well,  I  want  to  be  lively.  There  's  every  reason 
for  it ;  we  're  going  to  Chamouni." 

"  You  're  restless ;  that 's  what 's  the  matter  with 
you."  And  Mrs.  Euck  got  up. 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  said  her  husband.  "  I  never  felt  so 
quiet ;  I  feel  as  peaceful  as  a  little  child." 

Mrs.  Euck,  who  had  no  sense  whatever  of  humor, 
looked  at  her  daughter  and  at  me.  "Well,  I  hope 
you  '11  improve,"  she  said. 

"  Send  in  the  bills,"  Mr.  Euck  went  on,  rising  to 
his  feet.  "  Don't  hesitate,  Sophy.  I  don't  care  what 
you  do  now.  In  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound." 

Miss  Euck  joined  her  mother,  with  a  little  toss  of 
her  head,  and  we  followed  the  ladies  to  the  carriage. 
"  In  your  place,"  said  Miss  Sophy  to  her  father,  "  I 
wouldn't  talk  so  much  about  pennies  and  pounds 
before  strangers." 

Poor  Mr.  Euck  appeared  to  feel  the  force  of  this 
observation,  which,  in  the  consciousness  of  a  man 
who  had  never  been  "mean,"  could  hardly  fail  to 
strike  a  responsive  chord.  He  colored  a  little,  and 
he  was  silent ;  his  companions  got  into  their  vehicle, 
the  front  seat  of  which  was  adorned  with  a  large 
parcel  Mr.  Euck  gave  the  parcel  a  little  poke  with 
his  umbrella,  and  then,  turning  to  me  with  a  rather 
grimly  penitential  smile,  "After  all,"  he  said,  "for 
the  ladies  that 's  the  principal  interest." 


190  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 


VII. 


OLD  M.  Pigeonneau  had  more  than  once  proposed 
to  me  to  take  a  walk,  but  I  had  hitherto  been 
unable  to  respond  to  so  alluring  an  invitation.  It 
befell,  however,  one  afternoon,  that  I  perceived  him 
going  forth  upon  a  desultory  stroll,  with  a  certain 
lonesomeness  of  demeanor  that  attracted  my  sympa- 
thy. I  hastily  overtook  him,  and  passed  my  hand 
into  his  venerable  arm,  a  proceeding  which  produced 
in  the  good  old  man  so  jovial  a  sense  of  comrade- 
ship that  he  ardently  proposed  we  should  bend  our 
steps  to  the  English  Garden;  no  locality  less  fes- 
tive was  worthy  of  the  occasion.  To  the  English 
Garden,  accordingly,  we  went;  it  lay  beyond  the 
bridge,  beside  the  lake.  It  was  very  pretty  and  very 
animated ;  there  was  a  band  playing  in  the  middle, 
and  a  considerable  number  of  persons  sitting  under 
the  small  trees,  on  benches  and  little  chairs,  or  stroll- 
ing beside  the  blue  water.  We  joined  the  strollers, 
we  observed  our  companions,  and  conversed  on 
obvious  topics.  Some  of  these  last,  of  course,  were 
the  pretty  women  who  embellished  the  scene,  and 
who,  in  the  light  of  M.  Pigeonneau's  comprehensive 
criticism,  appeared  surprisingly  numerous.  He 
seemed  bent  upon  our  making  up  our  minds  which 
was  the  prettiest,  and  as  this  was  an  innocent  game  I 
consented  to  play  at  it. 

Suddenly  M.  Pigeonneau  stopped,  pressing  my  arm 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS.  191 

with  the  liveliest  emotion.  "  La  voila,  la  voila,  the 
prettiest ! "  he  quickly  murmured,  "  coming  toward 
us,  in  a  blue  dress,  with  the  other."  It  was  at  the 
other  I  was  looking,  for  the  other,  to  my  surprise,  was 
our  interesting  fellow-pensioner,  the  daughter  of  a 
vigilant  mother.  M.  Pigeonneau,  meanwhile,  had 
redoubled  his  exclamations ;  he  had  recognized  Miss 
Sophy  Euck.  "  Oh,  la  belle  rencontre,  nos  aimables 
convives;  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  world,  in  effect !" 

We  immediately  greeted  and  joined  the  young 
ladies,  who,  like  ourselves,  were  walking  arm  in  arm 
and  enjoying  the  scene. 

"  I  was  citing  you  with  admiration  to  my  friend, 
even  before  I  had  recognized  you,"  said  M.  Pigeon- 
neau to  Miss  Ruck. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  French  compliments,"  remarked 
this  young  lady,  presenting  her  back  to  the  smiling 
old  man. 

"  Are  you  and  Miss  Euck  walking  alone  ? "  I 
asked  of  her  companion.  "  You  had  better  accept  of 
M.  Pigeonneau's  gallant  protection,  and  of  mine. " 

Aurora  Church  had  taken  her  hand  out  of  Miss 
Euck's  arm ;  she  looked  at  me,  smiling,  with  her 
head  a  little  inclined,  while,  upon  her  shoulder,  she 
made  her  open  parasol  revolve.  "Which  is  most 
improper,  —  to  walk  alone  or  to  walk  with  gentlemen  ? 
I  wish  to  do  what  is  most  improper." 

"  What  mysterious  logic  governs  your  conduct  ? "  I 
inquired. 

"He  thinks  you  can't  understand   him  when  he 


192  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

talks  like  that,"  said  Miss  Buck.  "  But  I  do  under- 
stand you,  always ! " 

"  So  I  have  always  ventured  to  hope,  my  dear  Miss 
Kuck." 

"Well,  if  I  didn't,  it  wouldn't  be  much  loss," 
rejoined  this  young  lady. 

"Allons,  en  marche  ! "  cried  M.  Pigeonneau,  smiling 
still,  and  undiscouraged  by  her  inhumanity.  "  Let  us 
make  together  the  tour  of  the  garden."  And  he 
imposed  his  society  upon  Miss  Euck  with  a  respectful, 
elderly  grace,  which  was  evidently  unable  to  see 
anything  in  reluctance  but  modesty,  and  was  sub- 
limely conscious  of  a  mission  to  place  modesty  at  its 
ease.  This  ill-assorted  couple  walked  in  front,  while 
Aurora  Church  and  I  strolled  along  together. 

"  I  am  sure  this  is  more  improper,"  said  my  com- 
panion ;  "  this  is  delightfully  improper.  I  don't  say 
that  as  a  compliment  to  you,"  she  added.  "  I  would 
say  it  to  any  man,  no  matter  how  stupid." 

"Oh,  I  am  very  stupid,"  I  answered,  " but  this 
does  n't  seem  to  me  wrong." 

"  Not  for  you,  no  ;  only  for  me.  There  is  nothing 
that  a  man  can  do  that  is  wrong,  is  there  ?  En  morale, 
you  know,  I  mean.  Ah,  yes,  he  can  steal ;  but  I  think 
there  is  nothing  else,  is  there  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  One  does  n't  know  those  things 
until  after  one  has  done  them.  Then  one  is  en- 
lightened." 

"  And  you  mean  that  you  have  never  been  enlight- 
ened ?  You  make  yourself  out  very  good." 


THE  PENSION  RE  A  UREPA  S.  193 

"  That  is  better  than  making  one's  self  out  bad,  as 
you  do." 

The  young  girl  glanced  at  me  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  her  charming  smile,  "  That 's  one  of  the  conse- 
quences of  a  false  position." 

"  Is  your  position  false  ? "  I  inquired,  smiling  too 
at  this  large  formula. 

"  Actually  so." 

"  In  what  way  ? " 

"  Oh,  in  every  way.  For  instance,  I  have  to  pretend 
to  be  &  jeune  fille.  I  am  not  a  jeune  fille ;  no  Ameri- 
can girl  is  a  jeune  fille ;  an  American  girl  is  an 
intelligent,  responsible  creature.  I  have  to  pretend 
to  be  very  innocent,  but  I  am  not  very  innocent." 

"  You  don't  pretend  to  be  very  innocent ;  you  pre- 
tend to  be  —  what  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  very  wise." 

"  That 's  no  pretence.     I  am  wise." 

"You  are  not  an  American  girl,"  I  ventured  to 
observe. 

My  companion  almost  stopped,  looking  at  me ; 
there  was  a  little  flush  in  her  cheek.  "  Voila  ! "  she 
said.  "  There 's  my  false  position.  I  want  to  be  an 
American  girl,  and  I  'm  not." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you?"  I  went  on.  "An 
American  girl  would  n't  talk  as  you  are  talking 
now." 

"Please  tell  me,"  said  Aurora  Church,  with  expres- 
sive eagerness.  "  How  would  she  talk  ? " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  all  the  things  an  American  girl 
would  say,  but  I  think  I  can  tell  you  the  things  she 


194  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

would  n't  say.  She  would  n't  reason  out  her  conduct, 
as  you  seem  to  me  to  do." 

Aurora  gave  me  the  most  flattering  attention.  "  I 
see.  She  would  be  simpler.  To  do  very  simply 
things  that  are  not  at  all  simple,  —  that  is  the  Amer- 
ican girl ! " 

I  permitted  myself  a  small  explosion  of  hilarity. 
"  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  a  French  girl,  or  what 
you  are,"  I  said,  "  but  you  are  very  witty." 

"  Ah,  you  mean  that  I  strike  false  notes ! "  cried 
Aurora  Church,  sadly.  "  That 's  just  what  I  want  to 
avoid.  I  wish  you  would  always  tell  me." 

The  conversational  union  between  Miss  Euck  and 
her  neighbor,  in  front  of  us,  had  evidently  not  become 
a  close  one.  The  young  lady  suddenly  turned  round 
to  us  with  a  question  :  "  Don't  you  want  some  ice- 
cream ? " 

"  She  does  n't  strike  false  notes,"  I  murmured. 

There  was  a  kind  of  pavilion  or  kiosk,  which 
served  as  a  cafe,  and  at  which  the  delicacies  procurable 
at  such  an  establishment  were  dispensed.  Miss  Ruck 
pointed  to  the  little  green  tables  and  chairs  which 
were  set  out  on  the  gravel ;  M.  Pigeonneau,  fluttering 
with  a  sense  of  dissipation,  seconded  the  proposal, 
and  we  presently  sat  down  and  gave  our  order  to  a 
nimble  attendant.  I  managed  again  to  place  myself 
next  to  Aurora  Church ;  our  companions  were  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table. 

My  neighbor  was  delighted  with  our  situation. 
"  This  is  best  of  all,"  she  said.  "  I  never  believed  I 


THE  PENSION  BEA  UREPAS.  195 

should  come  to  a  cafe  with  two  strange  men  !  Now, 
you  can't  persuade  me  this  is  n't  wrong.  " 

"  To  make  it  wrong  we  ought  to  see  your  mother 
coming  down  that  path." 

"Ah,  my  mother  makes  everything  wrong,"  said 
the  young  girl,  attacking  with  a  little  spoon  in  the 
shape  of  a  spade  the  apex  of  a  pink  ice.  And  then 
she  returned  to  her  idea  of  a  moment  before :  "  You 
must  promise  to  tell  me  — to  warn  me  in  some  way — 
whenever  I  strike  a  false  note.  You  must  give  a  little 
cough,  like  that,  —  ahem  !  " 

"You  will  keep  me  very  busy,  and  people  will 
think  I  am  in  a  consumption." 

"  Voyons"  she  continued,  "  why  have  you  never 
talked  to  me  more  ?  Is  that  a  false  note  ?  Why 
have  n't  you  been  '  attentive '  ?  That 's  what  Ameri- 
can girls  call  it ;  that 's  what  Miss  Euck  calls  it." 

I  assured  myself  that  our  companions  were  out  of 
ear-shot,  and  that  Miss  Euck  was  much  occupied 
with  a  large  vanilla  cream.  "Because  you  are  always 
entwined  with  that  young  lady.  There  is  no  getting 
near  you." 

Aurora  looked  at  her  friend  while  the  latter  devoted 
herself  to  her  ice.  "  You  wonder  why  I  like  her  so 
much,  I  suppose.  So  does  mamma  ;  elle  s'y  perd.  I 
don't  like  her,  particularly;  je  n'en  suis-  pas  folle. 
But  she  gives  me  information;  she  tells  me  about 
America.  Mamma  has  always  tried  to  prevent  my 
knowing  anything  about  it,  and  I  am  all  the  more 
curious.  And  then  Miss  Euck  is  very  fresh." 


196  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

"  I  may  not  be  so  fresh  as  Miss  Buck,"  I  said,  "  but 
in  future,  when  you  want  information,  I  recommend 
you  to  come  to  me  for  it." 

"  Our  friend  offers  to  take  me  to  America ;  she  in- 
vites me  to  go  back  with  her,  to  stay  with  her.  You 
could  n't  do  that,  could  you  ? "  And  the  young  girl 
looked  at  me  a  moment.  "  Bon,  a  false  note  !  I  can 
see  it  by  your  face ;  you  remind  me  of  a  maitre  de 
piano." 

"  You  overdo  the  character,  —  the  poor  American 
girl,"  I  said.  "Are  you  going  to  stay  with  that 
delightful  family  ? " 

"  I  will  go  and  stay  with  any  one  that  will  take  me 
or  ask  me.  It 's  a  real  nostalgie.  She  says  that  in 
New  York  —  in  Thirty-Seventh  Street  —  I  should 
have  the  most  lovely  time." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  would  enjoy  it." 

"Absolute  liberty,  to  begin  with." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  have  a  certain  liberty  here," 
I  rejoined. 

"Ah,  this?  Oh,  I  shall  pay  for  this.  I  shall  be 
punished  by  mamma,  and  I  shall  be  lectured  by 
Madame  Galopin." 

"  The  wife  of  the  pasteur  ? " 

"  His  digne  Spouse.  Madame  Galopin,  for  mamma, 
is  the  incarnation  of  European  opinion.  That 's  what 
vexes  me  with  mamma,  her  thinking  so  much  of 
people  like  Madame  Galopin.  Going  to  see  Madame 
Galopin,  —  mamma  calls  that  being  in  European 
society.  European  society  !  I  'm  so  sick  of  that  ex- 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  U REP  AS.  197 

pression ;  I  have  heard  it  since  I  was  six  years  old. 
Who  is  Madame  Galopin,  —  who  thinks  anything  of 
her  here  ?  She  is  nobody ;  she  is  perfectly  third-rate. 
If  I  like  America  better  than  mamma,  I  also  know 
Europe  better." 

"But  your  mother,  certainly,"  I  objected,  a  trifle 
timidly,  for  my  young  lady  was  excited,  and  had  a 
charming  little  passion  in  her  eye,  — "  your  mother 
has  a  great  many  social  relations  all  over  the  conti- 
nent." 

"  She  thinks  so,  but  half  the  people  don't  care  for 
us.  They  are  not  so  good  as  we,  and  they  know  it,  — 
1 11  do  them  that  justice,  —  and  they  wonder  why  we 
should  care  for  them.  When  we  are  polite  to  them, 
they  think  the  less  of  us  ;  there  are  plenty  of  people 
like  that.  Mamma  thinks  so  much  of  them  simply 
because  they  are  foreigners.  If  I  could  tell  you  all 
the  dull,  stupid,  second-rate  people  I  have  had  to  talk 
to,  for  no  better  reason  than  that  they  were  de  leur 
pays  !  —  Germans,  French,  Italians,  Turks,  everything. 
When  I  complain,  mamma  always  says  that  at  any 
rate  it's  practice  in  the  language.  And  she  makes 
so  much  of  the  English,  too;  I  don't  know  what 
that 's  practice  in." 

Before  I  had  time  to  suggest  a  hypothesis,  as 
regards  this  latter  point,  I  saw  something  -that  made 
me  rise,  with  a  certain  solemnity,  from  my  chair. 
This  was  nothing  less  than  the  neat  little  figure  of 
Mrs.  Church  —  a  perfect  model  of  the  femme  comme 
il  faut  —  approaching  our  table  with  an  impatient 


198  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

step,  and  followed  most  unexpectedly  in  her  advance 
by  the  pre-eminent  form  of  Mr.  Ruck.  She  had  evi- 
dently come  in  quest  of  her  daughter,  and  if  she  had 
commanded  this  gentleman's  attendance  it  had  been 
on  no  softer  ground  than  that  of  his  unenvied  pater- 
nity to  her  guilty  child's  accomplice.  My  movement 
had  given  the  alarm,  and  Aurora  Church  and  M. 
Pigeonneau  got  up ;  Miss  Euck  alone  did  not,  in  the 
local  phrase,  derange  herself.  Mrs.  Church,  beneath 
her  modest  little  bonnet,  looked  very  serious,  but  not 
at  all  fluttered ;  she  came  straight  to  her  daughter, 
who  received  her  with  a  smile,  and  then  she  looked 
all  round  at  the  rest  of  us,  very  fixedly  and  tranquilly, 
without  bowing.  I  must  do  both  these  ladies  the 
justice  to  mention  that  neither  of  them  made  the 
least  little  "  scene." 

"  I  have  come  for  you,  dearest,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Yes,  dear  mamma." 

"  Come  for  you  —  come  for  you,"  Mrs.  Church 
repeated,  looking  down  at  the  relics  of  our  little 
feast.  "I  was  obliged  to  ask  Mr.  Ruck's  assistance. 
I  was  puzzled ;  I  thought  a  long  time." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Church,  I  was  glad  to  see  you  puzzled 
once  in  your  life ! "  said  Mr.  Ruck,  with  friendly 
jocosity.  "  But  you  came  pretty  straight,  for  all  that. 
I  had  hard  work  to  keep  up  with  you." 

"  We  will  take  a  cab,  Aurora,"  Mrs.  Church  went 
on,  without  heeding  this  pleasantry,  —  "a  closed  one. 
Come,  my  daughter." 

"  Yes,  dear  mamma."     The  young  girl  was  blush- 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  199 

ing,  yet  she  was  still  smiling ;  she  looked  round  at 
us  all,  and,  as  her  eyes  met  mine,  I  thought  she  was 
beautiful.  "  Good-by,"  she  said  to  us.  "  I  have  had 
a  lovely  time" 

"  We  must  not  linger,"  said  her  mother ;  "  it  is  five 
o'clock.  We  are  to  dine,  you  know,  with  Madame 
Galopin." 

"  I  had  quite  forgotten,"  Aurora  declared.  "  That 
will  be  charming." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  assist  you  to  carry  her  back, 
ma'am  ? "  asked  Mr.  Euck. 

Mrs.  Church  hesitated  a  moment,  with  her  serene 
little  gaze.  "Do  you  prefer,  then,  to  leave  your 
daughter  to  finish  the  evening  with  these  gentle- 
men ? " 

Mr.  Euck  pushed  back  his  hat  and  scratched  the 
top  of  his  head.  "  Well,  I  don't  know.  How  would 
you  like  that,  Sophy  ? " 

"  Well,  I  never ! "  exclaimed  Sophy,  as  Mrs.  Church 
marched  off  with  her  daughter. 


VIII. 

I  HAD  half  expected  that  Mrs.  Church  would  make 
me  feel  the  weight  of  her  disapproval  of  my  own 
share  in  that  little  act  of  revelry  in  the  English 
Garden.  But  she  maintained  her  claim  to  being  a 
highly  reasonable  woman ;  I  could  not  but  admire 
the  justice  of  this  pretension  by  recognizing  my  irre- 


200  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

sponsibility.  I  had  taken  her  daughter  as  I  found 
her,  which  was,  according  to  Mrs.  Church's  view,  in 
a  very  equivocal  position.  The  natural  instinct  of 
a  young  man,  in  such  a  situation,  is  not  to  protest, 
but  to  profit ;  and  it  was  clear  to  Mrs.  Church  that 
I  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  Miss  Aurora's  appear- 
ing in  public  under  the  insufficient  chaperonage  of 
Miss  Euck.  Besides,  she  liked  to  converse,  and  she 
apparently  did  me  the  honor  to  believe  that  of  all 
the  members  of  the  Pension  Beaurepas  I  had  the 
most  cultivated  understanding.  I  found  her  in  the 
salon  a  couple  of  evenings  after  the  incident  I  have 
just  narrated,  and  I  approached  her  with  a  view  of 
making  my  peace  with  her,  if  this  should  prove 
necessary.  But  Mrs.  Church  was  as  gracious  as  I 
could  have  desired ;  she  put  her  marker  into  her 
book,  and  folded  her  plump  little  hands  on  the 
cover.  She  made  no  specific  allusion  to  the  English 
Garden ;  she  embarked,  rather,  upon  those  general 
considerations  in  which  her  refined  intellect  was  so 
much  at  home. 

"  Always  at  your  studies,  Mrs.  Church,"  I  ventured 
to  observe. 

"  Que  voulez-vous  ?  To  say  studies  is  to  say  too 
much ;  one  does  n't  study  in  the  parlors  of  a  board- 
ing-house. But  I  do  what  I  can ;  I  have  always  done 
what  I  can.  That  is  all  I  have  ever  claimed." 

"  No  one  can  do  more,  and  you  seem  to  have  done 
a  great  deal." 

"  Do  you  know  my  secret  ? "  she  asked,  with  an  air 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  201 

of  brightening  confidence.  And  she  paused  a  moment 
before  she  imparted  her  secret :  "  To  care  only  for  the 
best !  To  do  the  best,  to  know  the  best,  —  to  have, 
to  desire,  to  recognize,  only  the  best.  That 's  what  I 
have  always  done,  in  rny  quiet  little  way.  I  have 
gone  through  Europe  on  my  devoted  little  errand, 
seeking,  seeing,  heeding,  only  the  best.  And  it  has 
not  been  for  myself  alone ;  it  has  been  for  my  daugh- 
ter. My  daughter  has  had  the  best.  We  are  not 
rich,  but  I  can  say  that." 

"  She  has  had  you,  madam,"  I  rejoined  finely. 

"Certainly;  such  as  I  am,  I  have  been  devoted. 
We  have  got  something  everywhere ;  a  little  here, 
a  little  there.  That 's  the  real  secret,  —  to  get  some- 
thing everywhere ;  you  always  can  if  you  are  devoted. 
Sometimes  it  has  been  a  little  music,  sometimes  a 
little  deeper  insight  into  the  history  of  art;  every 
little  counts,  you  know.  Sometimes  it  has  been  just 
a  glimpse,  a  view,  a  lovely  landscape,  an  impression. 
We  have  always  been  on  the  lookout.  Sometimes  it 
has  been  a  valued  friendship,  a  delightful  social  tie." 

"  Here  comes  the  '  European  society,'  the  poor 
daughter's  bugbear,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Certainly," 
I  remarked  aloud,  —  I  admit,  rather  perversely,  — 
"if  you  have  lived  a  great  deal  in  pensions,  you 
must  have  got  acquainted  with  lots  of  people." 

Mrs.  Church  dropped  her  eyes  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  considerable  gravity,  "  I  think  the  European 
pension  system  in  many  respects  remarkable,  and  in 
some  satisfactory.  But  of  the  friendships  that  we 

9* 


202  THE  PENSION  BEAU  REP  AS. 

have  formed,  few  have  been  contracted  in  establish- 
ments of  this  kind." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that !  "  I  said,  laughing. 

"  I  don't  say  it  for  you,  though  I  might  say  it  for 
some  others.  We  have  been  interested  in  European 
homes!' 

"Oh,  I  see." 

"  "We  have  the  entree  of  the  old  Genevese  society. 
I  like  its  tone.  I  prefer  it  to  that  of  Mr.  Buck," 
added  Mrs.  Church,  calmly ;  "  to  that  of  Mrs.  Euck 
and  Miss  Euck,  —  of  Miss  Euck,  especially." 

"  Ah,  the  poor  Eucks  have  n't  any  tone  at  all,"  I 
said.  "Don't  take  them  more  seriously  than  they 
take  themselves." 

"Tell  me  this,"  my  companion  rejoined :  "are  they 
fair  examples  ? " 

"  Examples  of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  our  American  tendencies." 

" '  Tendencies '  is  a  big  word,  dear  lady ;  tendencies 
are  difficult  to  calculate.  And  you  should  n't  abuse 
those  good  Eucks,  who  have  been  very  kind  to  your 
daughter.  They  have  invited  her  to  go  and  stay  with 
them  in  Thirty-Seventh  Street." 

"  Aurora  has  told  me.     It  might  be  very  serious." 

"  It  might  be  very  droll,"  I  said. 

"To  me,"  declared  Mrs.  Church,  "it  is  simply  ter- 
rible. I  think  we  shall  have  to  leave  the  Pension 
Beaurepas.  I  shall  go  back  to  Madame  Bonrepos." 

"On  account  of  the  Eucks  ? "  I  asked. 

"Pray,  why  don't  they  go  themselves?     I  have 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  203 

given  them  some  excellent  addresses,  —  written  down 
the  very  hours  of  the  trains.  They  were  going  to 
Appenzell :  I  thought  it  was  arranged." 

"  They  talk  of  Chamouni  now,"  I  said ;  "  but  they 
are  very  helpless  and  undecided." 

"  I  will  give  them  some  Chamouni  addresses.  Mrs. 
Euck  will  need  a  chaise  d  porteurs ;  I  will  give  her 
the  name  of  a  man  who  lets  them  lower  than  you  get 
them  at  the  hotels.  After  that  they  must  go." 

"  Well,  I  doubt,"  I  observed,  "  whether  Mr.  Euck 
will  ever  really  be  seen  on  the  Mer  de  Glace,  —  in  a 
high  hat.  He 's  not  like  you  ;  he  does  n't  value  his 
European  privileges.  He  takes  no  interest.  He  regrets 
Wall  Street,  acutely.  As  his  wife  says,  he  is  very 
restless,  but  he  has  no  curiosity  about  Chamouni.  So 
you  must  not  depend  too  much  on  the  effect  of  your 
addresses." 

"  Is  it  a  frequent  type  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Church,  with 
an  air  of  self-control. 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  Mr.  Euck  is  a  broken-down  man 
of  business.  He  is  broken  down  in  health,  and  I 
suspect  he  is  broken  down  in  fortune.  He  has  spent 
his  whole  life  in  buying  and  selling ;  he  knows  how 
to  do  nothing  else.  His  wife  and  daughter  have 
spent  their  lives,  not  in  selling,  but  in  buying ;  and 
they,  on  their  side,  know  how  to  do  nothing  else.  To 
get  something  in  a  shop  that  they  can  put  on  their 
backs, — that  is  their  one  idea;  they  have  n't  another 
in  their  heads.  Of  course  they  spend  no  end  of 
money,  and  they  do  it  with  an  implacable  persist- 


204  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

ence,  with  a  mixture  of  audacity  and  of  cunning. 
They  do  it  in  his  teeth  and  they  do  it  behind  his 
back;  the  mother  protects  the  daughter,  and  the 
daughter  eggs  on  the  mother.  Between  them,  they 
are  bleeding  him  to  death." 

"Ah,  what  a  picture!"  murmured  Mrs.  Church. 
"  I  am  afraid  they  are  very  —  uncultivated." 

"  I  share  your  fears.  They  are  perfectly  ignorant ; 
they  have  no  resources.  The  vision  of  fine  clothes 
occupies  their  whole  imagination.  They  have  not  an 
idea  —  even  a  worse  one  —  to  compete  with  it.  Poor 
Mr.  Euck,  who  is  extremely  good-natured  and  soft, 
seems  to  me  a  really  tragic  figure.  He  is  getting  bad 
news  every  day  from  home ;  his  business  is  going  to 
the  dogs.  He  is  unable  to  stop  it ;  he  has  to  stand 
and  watch  his  fortunes  ebb.  He  has  been  used  to 
doing  things  in  a  big  way,  and  he  feels  '  mean '  if  he 
^  makes  a  fuss  about  bills.  So  the  ladies  keep  sending 
them  in." 

"  But  have  n't  they  common  sense  ?  Don't  they 
know  they  are  ruining  themselves  ? " 

"  They  don't  believe  it.  The  duty  of  an  American 
husband  and  father  is  to  keep  them  going.  If  he 
asks  them  how,  that 's  his  own  affair.  So,  by  way  of 
not  being  mean,  of  being  a  good  American  husband 
and  father,  poor  Euck  stands  staring  at  bankruptcy." 

Mrs.  Church  looked  at  me  a  moment,  in  quickened 
meditation.  "Why,  if  Aurora  were  to  go  to  stay 
with  them,  she  might  not  even  be  properly  fed ! " 

"  I  don't,  on  the  whole,  recommend,"  I  said,  laugh- 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  205 

ing,  "  that  your  daughter  should  pay  a  visit  to  Thirty- 
Seventh  Street." 

"  Why  should  I  be  subjected  to  such  trials,  —  so 
sadly  JprouvJe  ?  Why  should  a  daughter  of  mine 
like  that  dreadful  girl  ? " 

"  Does  she  like  her  ?  " 

"  Pray,  do  you  mean,"  asked  my  companion,  softly, 
"  that  Aurora  is  a  hypocrite  ?  " 

I  hesitated  a  moment.  "  A  little,  since  you  ask 
me.  I  think  you  have  forced  her  to  be." 

Mrs.  Church  answered  this  possibly  presumptuous 
charge  with  a  tranquil,  candid  exultation :  "  I  never 
force  my  daughter  ! " 

"  She  is  nevertheless  in  a  false  position,"  I  rejoined. 
"She  hungers  and  thirsts  to  go  back  to  her  own  coun- 
try ;  she  wants  to  *  come  out '  in  New  York,  which  is 
certainly,  sociably  speaking,  the  El  Dorado  of  young 
ladies.  She  likes  any  one,  for  the  moment,  who  will 
talk  to  her  of  that,  and  serve  as  a  connecting  link 
with  her  native  shores.  Miss  Buck  performs  this 
agreeable  office." 

"  Your  idea  is,  then,  that  if  she  were  to  go  with 
Miss  Euck  to  America  she  would  drop  her  after- 
wards." 

I  complimented  Mrs.  Church  upon  her  logical  mind, 
but  I  repudiated  this  cynical  supposition.  "  I  can't 
imagine  her  —  when  it  should  come  to  the  point  — 
embarking  with  the  famille  Buck.  But  I  wish  she 
might  go,  nevertheless." 

Mrs.  Church  shook  her  head  serenely,  and  smiled 


206  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

at  my  inappropriate  zeal.  "I  trust  my  poor  child 
may  never  be  guilty  of  so  fatal  a  mistake.  She  is 
completely  in  error ;  she  is  wholly  unadapted  to  the 
peculiar  conditions  of  American  life.  It  would  not 
please  her.  She  would  not  sympathize.  My  daugh- 
ter's ideal  is  not  the  ideal  of  the  class  of  young 
women  to  which  Miss  Euck  belongs.  I  fear  they 
are  very  numerous  ;  they  give  the  tone,  —  they  give 
the  tone." 

"  It  is  you  that  are  mistaken,"  I  said ;  "  go  home 
for  six  months  and  see." 

"I  have  not,  unfortunately,  the  means  to  make 
costly  experiments.  My  daughter  has  had  great 
advantages,  —  rare  advantages,  —  and  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  believe  that  au  fond  she  does  not 
appreciate  them.  One  thing  is  certain :  I  must 
remove  her  from  this  pernicious  influence.  We  must 
part  company  with  this  deplorable  family.  If  Mr. 
Euck  and  his  ladies  cannot  be  induced  to  go  to  Cha- 
mouni,  —  a  journey  that  no  traveller  with  the  small- 
est self-respect  would  omit,  —  my  daughter  and  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  retire.  We  shall  go  to  Dresden." 

"To  Dresden?" 

"  The  capital  of  Saxony.  I  had  arranged  to  go 
there  for  the  autumn,  but  it  will  be  simpler  to  go 
immediately.  There  are  several  works  in  the  gallery 
with  which  my  daughter  has  not,  I  think,  sufficiently 
familiarized  herself;  it  is  especially  strong  in  the 
seventeenth-century  schools." 

As  my  companion  offered  me  this  information  I 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  207 

perceived  Mr.  Buck  come  lounging  in,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  his  elbows  making  acute  angles. 
He  had  his  usual  anomalous  appearance  of  both  seek- 
ing and  avoiding  society,  and  he  wandered  obliquely 
toward  Mrs.  Church,  whose  last  words  he  had  over- 
heard. "The  seventeenth-century  schools,"  he  said, 
slowly,  as  if  he  were  weighing  some  very  small  object 
in  a  very  large  pair  of  scales.  "  Now,  do  you  suppose 
they  had  schools  at  that  period  ? " 

Mrs.  Church  rose  with  a  good  deal  of  precision, 
making  no  answer  to  this  incongruous  jest.  She 
clasped  her  large  volume  to  her  neat  little  bosom, 
and  she  fixed  a  gentle,  serious  eye  upon  Mr.  Ruck. 

"  I  had  a  letter  this  morning  from  Chamouni,"  she 
said. 

"  Well,"  replied  Mr.  Ruck,  "  I  suppose  you  've  got 
friends  all  over." 

"  I  have  friends  at  Chamouni,  but  they  are  leaving. 
To  their  great  regret."  I  had  got  up,  too ;  I  listened 
to  this  statement,  and  I  wondered.  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  mention  the  subject  of  my  agitation.  I 
asked  myself  whether  this  was  a  sudden  improvisation 
consecrated  by  maternal  devotion ;  but  this  point  has 
never  been  elucidated.  "They  are  giving  up  some 
charming  rooms  ;  perhaps  you  would  like  them.  I 
should  suggest  your  telegraphing.  The  weather  is 
glorious,"  continued  Mrs.  Church,  "  and  the  highest 
peaks  are  now  perceived  with  extraordinary  dis- 
tinctness." 

Mr.  Ruck  listened,  as  he  always  listened,  respect- 


208  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

fully.  "  Well/'  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  as  I  want  to 
go  up  Mount  Blank.  That 's  the  principal  attraction, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  There  are  many  others.  I  thought  I  would  offer 
you  an  —  an  exceptional  opportunity." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Buck, "  you  're  right  down  friendly. 
But  I  seem  to  have  more  opportunities  than  I  know 
what  to  do  with.  I  don't  seem  able  to  take  hold." 

"  It  only  needs  a  little  decision,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Church,  with  an  air  which  was  an  admirable  example 
of  this  virtue.  "  I  wish  you  good-night,  sir."  And 
she  moved  noiselessly  away. 

Mr.  Buck,  with  his  long  legs  apart,  stood  staring 
after  her;  then  he  transferred  his  perfectly  quiet 
eyes  to  me.  "  Does  she  own  a  hotel  over  there  ? "  he 
asked.  "  Has  she  got  any  stock  in  Mount  Blank  ? " 


IX. 


THE  next  day  Madame  Beaurepas  handed  me,  with 
her  own  elderly  fingers,  a  missive  which  proved  to  be 
a  telegram.  After  glancing  at  it,  I  informed  her  that 
it  was  apparently  a  signal  for  my  departure ;  my 
brother  had  arrived  in  England,  and  proposed  to  me 
to  meet  him  there ;  he  had  come  on  business  and  was 
to  spend  but  three  weeks  in  Europe.  "  But  my  house 
empties  itself!"  cried  the  old  woman.  "The  famille 
Euck  talks  of  leaving  me,  and  Madame  Church  nous 
fait  la  reverence" 


THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS.  209 

«• 

"  Mrs.  Church  is  going  away  ?  " 

"  She  is  packing  her  trunk  ;  she  is  a  very  extraor- 
dinary person.  Do  you  know  what  she  asked  me  this 
morning  ?  To  invent  some  combination  by  which 
the  famille  Euck  should  move  away.  I  informed 
her  that  I  was  not  an  inventor.  That  poor  famille 
Euck !  '  Oblige  me  by  getting  rid  of  them/  said 
Madame  Church,  as  she  would  have  asked  Celestine 
to  remove  a  dish  of  cabbage.  She  speaks  as  if  the 
world  were  made  for  Madame  Church.  I  intimated 
to  her  that  if  she  objected  to  the  company  there 
was  a  very  simple  remedy :  and  at  present  die  fait  ses 
paquets" 

"  She  really  asked  you,"  I  said,  "  to  get  the  Eucks 
out  of  the  house  ? " 

"  She  asked  me  to  tell  them  that  their  rooms  had 
been  let,  three  months  ago,  to  another  family.  She 
has  an  aplomb  !  " 

Mrs.  Church's  aplomb  caused  me  considerable 
diversion ;  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not,  in  some 
degree,  to  laugh  over  it  at  my  leisure  that  I  went  out 
into  the  garden  that  evening  to  smoke  a  cigar.  The 
night  was  dark  and  not  particularly  balmy,  and  most 
of  my  fellow-pensioners,  after  dinner,  had  remained 
in-doors.  A  long  straight  walk  conducted  from  the 
door  of  the  house  to  the  ancient  grille  that  I  have 
described,  and  I  stood  here  for  some  time,  looking 
through  the  iron  bars  at  the  silent,  empty  streets. 
The  prospect  was  not  entertaining,  and  I  presently 
turned  away.  At  this  moment  I  saw,  in  the  distance, 


210  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

the  door  of  the  house  open  and  throw  a  shaft  of  lamp- 
light into  the  darkness.  Into  the  lamp-light  there 
stepped  a  female  figure,  who  presently  closed  the 
door  behind  her.  She  disappeared  in  the  dusk  of  the 
garden  and  I  had  seen  her  but  for  an  instant,  but  I 
remained  under  the  impression  that  Aurora  Church, 
on  the  eve  of  her  departure,  had  come  out  for  a  medi- 
tative stroll. 

I  lingered  near  the  gate,  keeping  the  red  tip  of  my 
cigar  turned  toward  the  house,  and  before  long  a 
young  lady  emerged  from  among  the  shadows  of  the 
trees  and  encountered  the  light  of  a  lamp  that  stood 
just  outside  the  gate.  It  was  in  fact  Aurora  Church, 
but  she  seemed  more  bent  upon  conversation  than 
upon  meditation.  She  stood  a  moment  looking  at  me, 
and  then  she  said, — 

"  Ought  I  to  retire,  —  to  return  to  the  house  ? " 

"  If  you  ought,  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  tell  you 
so,"  I  answered. 

"  But  we  are  all  alone ;  there  is  no  one  else  in  the 
garden." 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  I  have  been  alone 
with  a  young  lady.  I  am  not  at  all  terrified." 

"  Ah,  but  I  ? "  said  the  young  girl.  "  I  have  never 
been  alone  "  —  Then,  quickly,  she  interrupted  her- 
self: "  Good,  there 's  another  false  note  !" 

"Yes,  I  am  obliged  to  admit  that  one  is  very 
false." 

She  stood  looking  at  me.  "  I  am  going  away  to- 
morrow ;  after  that  there  will  be  no  one  to  tell  me." 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  211 

"  That  will  matter  little,"  I  presently  replied.    "  Tell- 
ing you  will  do  no  good." 

"  Ah,  why  do  you  say  that  ? "  murmured  Aurora 
Church. 

I  said  it  partly  because  it  was  true  ;  but  I  said  it 
for  other  reasons,  as  well,  which  it  was  hard  to 
define.  Standing  there  bare-headed,  in  the  night  air, 
in  the  vague  light,  this  young  lady  looked  extremely 
interesting ;  and  the  interest  of  her  appearance  was 
not  diminished  by  a  suspicion  on  my  own  part  that 
she  had  come  into  the  garden  knowing  me  to  be 
there.  I  thought  her  a  charming  girl,  and  I  felt  very 
sorry  for  her ;  but,  as  I  looked  at  her,  those  reflections 
made  to  me  by  Madame  Beaurepas  on  her  disposi- 
tion recurred  to  me  with  a  certain  force.  I  had  pro- 
fessed a  contempt  for  them  at  the  time,  but  it  now 
came  into  my  head  that  perhaps  this  unfortunately 
situated,  this  insidiously  mutinous,  young  creature 
was  looking  out  for  a  preserver.  She  was  certainly 
not  a  girl  to  throw  herself  at  a  man's  head,  but  it  was 
possible  that  in  her  intense  —  her  almost  morbid  — 
desire  to  put  into  effect  an  ideal  which  was  perhaps 
after  all  charged  with  as  many  fallacies  as  her 
mother  affirmed,  she  might  do  something  reckless  and 
irregular,  —  something  in  which  a  sympathetic  com- 
patriot, as  yet  unknown,  might  find  his  profit.  The 
image,  unshaped  though  it  was,  of  this  sympathetic 
compatriot  filled  me  with  a  sort  of  envy.  For  some 
moments  I  was  silent,  conscious  of  these  things,  and 
then  I  answered  her  question :  "  Because  some  things 


212  THE  PENSION  BEAUREPAS. 

—  some  differences  —  are  felt,  not  learned.  To  you 
liberty  is  not  natural ;  you  are  like  a  person  who  has 
bought  a  repeater,  and,  in  his  satisfaction,  is  con- 
stantly making  it  sound.  To  a  real  American  girl 
her  liberty  is  a  very  vulgarly  ticking  old  clock." 

"  Ah,  you  mean,  then,"  said  the  poor  girl,  "  that  iny 
mother  has  ruined  me  ?  " 

"  Euined  you  ? " 

"  She  has  so  perverted  my  mind  that  when  I  try  to 
be  natural  I  am  necessarily  immodest." 

u  That  again  is  a  false  note,"  I  said,  laughing. 

She  turned  away.     "  I  think  you  are  cruel" 

"  By  no  means,"  I  declared ;  "  because,  for  my  own 
taste,  I  prefer  you  as  —  as  "  — 

I  hesitated,  and  she  turned  back.     "  As  what  ? " 

"  As  you  are." 

She  looked  at  me  awhile  again,  and  then  she  said, 
in  a  little  reasoning  voice  that  reminded  me  of  her 
mother's,  only  that  it  was  conscious  and  studied,  "  I 
was  not  aware  that  I  am  under  any  particular  obliga- 
tion to  please  you ! "  And  then  she  gave  a  little 
laugh,  quite  at  variance  with  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  obligation,"  I  said,  "  but  one 
has  preferences.  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going 
away." 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you  ?  You  are  going 
yourself." 

"  As  I  am  going  in  a  different  direction,  that  makes 
all  the  greater  separation." 

She  answered  nothing ;  she  stood  looking  through 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  213 

the  bars  of  the  tall  gate  at  the  empty,  dusky  street. 
"  This  grille  is  like  a  cage,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  Fortunately,  it  is  a  cage  that  will  open."  And 
I  laid  my  hand  on  the  lock. 

"  Don't  open  it,"  and  she  pressed  the  gate  back. 
"  If  you  should  open  it  I  would  go  out  —  and  never 
return." 

"  Where  should  you  go  ?  " 

"  To  America." 

"  Straight  away  ? " 

"  Somehow  or  other.  I  would  go  to  the  American 
consul.  I  would  beg  him  to  give  me  money,  —  to 
help  me." 

I  received  this  assertion  without  a  smile ;  I  was 
not  in  a  smiling  humor.  On  the  contrary,  I  felt 
singularly  excited,  and  I  kept  my  hand  on  the  lock 
of  the  gate.  I  believed  (or  I  thought  I  believed)  what 
my  companion  said,  and  I  had  —  absurd  as  it  may 
appear — an  irritated  vision  of  her  throwing  herself 
upon  consular  sympathy.  It  seemed  to  me,  for  a 
moment,  that  to  pass  out  of  that  gate  with  this 
yearning,  straining  young  creature  would  be  to  pass 
into  some  mysterious  felicity.  If  I  were  only  a  hero 
of  romance,  I  would  offer,  myself,  to  take  her  to 
America. 

In  a  moment  more,  perhaps,  I  should  have  per- 
suaded myself  that  I  was  one,  but  at  this  juncture  I 
heard  a  sound  that  was  not  romantic.  It  proved  to 
be  the  very  realistic  tread  of  Celestine,  the  cook,  who 
stood  grinning  at  us  as  we  turned  about  from  our 
colloquy. 


214  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S. 

"  I  ask  lien  pardon!'  said  Celestine.  "  The  mother 
of  mademoiselle  desires  that  mademoiselle  should 
come  in  immediately.  M.  le  Pasteur  Galopin  has 
come  to  make  his  adieux  to  ces  dames." 

Aurora  gave  me  only  one  glance,  but  it  was  a  touch- 
ing one.  Then  she  slowly  departed  with  Celestine. 

The  next  morning,  on  coming  into  the  garden,  I 
found  that  Mrs.  Church  and  her  daughter  had 
departed.  I  was  informed  of  this  fact  by  old  M. 
Pigeonneau,  who  sat  there  under  a  tree,  having  his 
coffee  at  a  little  green  table. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  envy  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  had  the 
last  glimpse  of  that  charming  Miss  Aurora." 

"  I  had  a  very  late  glimpse,"  I  answered,  "  and  it 
was  all  I  could  possibly  desire." 

"  I  have  always  noticed,"  rejoined  M.  Pigeonneau, 
"that  your  desires  are  more  moderate  than  mine. 
Que  voulez-vous  ?  I  am  of  the  old  school.  Je  crois 
que  la  race  se  perd.  I  regret  the  departure  of  that 
young  girl :  she  had  an  enchanting  smile.  Ce  sera 
une  femme  d'esprit.  For  the  mother,  I  can  console 
myself.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  was  a  femme  d'esprit, 
though  she  wished  to  pass  for  one.  Round,  rosy, 
potelee,  she  yet  had  not  the  temperament  of  her 
appearance ;  she  was  a  femme  austere.  I  have  often 
noticed  that  contradiction  in  American  ladies.  You 
see  a  plump  little  woman,  with  a  speaking  eye  and 
the  contour  and  complexion  of  a  ripe  peach,  and  if 
you  venture  to  conduct  yourself  in  the  smallest 
degree  in  accordance  with  these  indices,  you  discover 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  215 

a  species  of  Methodist, —  of  what  do  you  call  it? 
—  of  Quakeress.  On  the  other  hand,  you  encounter 
a  tall,  lean,  angular  person,  without  color,  without 
grace,  all  elbows  and  knees,  and  you  find  it 's  a 
nature  of  the  tropics  !  .  The  women  of  duty  look  like 
coquettes,  and  the  others  look  like  alpenstocks ! 
However,  we  have  still  the  handsome  Madame  Buck, 
— a  real  femme  de  Rubens,  celle-ld.  It  is  very  true 
that  to  talk  to  her  one  must  know  the  Flemish 
tongue  ! " 

I  had  determined,  in  accordance  with  my  brother's 
telegram,  to  go  away  in  the  afternoon  ;  so  that,  hav- 
ing various  duties  to  perform,  I  left  M.  Pigeonneau 
to  his  international  comparisons.  Among  other  things, 
I  went  in  the  course  of  the  morning  to  the  banker's, 
to  draw  money  for  my  journey,  and  there  I  found 
Mr.  Ruck,  with  a  pile  of  crumpled  letters  in  his  lap, 
his  chair  tipped  back  and  his  eyes  gloomily  fixed  on 
the  fringe  of  the  green  plush  table-cloth.  I  timidly 
expressed  the  hope  that  he  had  got  better  news  from- 
home,  whereupon  he  gave  me  a  look  in  which,  con- 
sidering his  provocation,  the  absence  of  irritation 
was  conspicuous. 

He  took  up  his  letters  in  his  large  hand,  and 
crushing  them  together  held  it  out  to  me.  "That 
epistolary  matter,"  he  said,  "  is  worth  about  five  cents. 
But  I  guess,"  he  added,  rising,  "  I  have  taken  it  in 
by  this  time."  When  I  had  drawn  my  money,  I 
asked  him  to  come  and  breakfast  with  me  at  the 
little  brasserie,  much  favored  by  students,  to  which  I 


216  THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPAS. 

used  to  resort  in  the  old  town.  "  I  could  n't  eat,  sir," 
he  said,  "  I  could  n't  eat.  Bad  news  takes  away  the 
appetite.  Bat  I  guess  I'll  go  with  you,  so  that  I 
need  n't  go  to  table  down  there  at  the  pension.  The 
old  woman  down  there  is  always  accusing  me  of 
turning  up  nay  nose  at  her  food.  Well,  I  guess  I 
sha'n't  turn  up  my  nose  at  anything  now." 

We  went  to  the  little  brasserie,  where  poor  Mr. 
Euck  made  the  lightest  possible  breakfast.  But  if 
he  ate  very  little,  he  talked  a  great  deal ;  he  talked 
about  business,  going  into  a  hundred  details  in 
which  I  was  quite  unable  to  follow  him.  His  talk 
was  not  angry  or  bitter ;  it  was  a  long,  meditative, 
melancholy  monologue ;  if  it  had  been  a  trifle  less 
incoherent,  I  should  almost  have  called  it  philo- 
sophic. I  was  very  sorry  for  him  ;  I  wanted  to  do 
something  for  him,  but  the  only  thing  I  could  do  was, 
when  we  had  breakfasted,  to  see  him  safely  back  to 
the  Pension  Beaurepas.  We  went  across  the  Treille 
and  down  the  Corraterie,  out  of  which  we  turned  into 
the  Eue  du  Ehone.  In  this  latter  street,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  are  many  of  those  brilliant  jewellers' 
shops  for  which  Geneva  is  famous.  I  always  admired 
their  glittering  windows,  and  never  passed  them 
without  a  lingering  glance.  Even  on  this  occasion, 
preoccupied  as  I  was  with  my  impending  departure 
and  with  my  companion's  troubles,  I  suffered  my 
eyes  to  wander  along  the  precious  tiers  that  flashed 
and  twinkled  behind  the  huge,  clear  plates  of  glass. 
Thanks  to  this  inveterate  habit,  I  made  a  discovery. 


THE  PENSION  BE  A  UREPA  S.  217 

In  the  largest  and  most  brilliant  of  these  establish- 
ments I  perceived  two  ladies,  seated  before  the  coun- 
ter with  an  air  of  absorption  which  sufficiently 
proclaimed  their  identity.  I  hoped  my  companion 
would  not  see  them,  but  as  we  came  abreast  of  the 
door,  a  little  beyond,  we  found  it  open  to  the  warm 
summer  air.  Mr.  Ruck  happened  to  glance  in,  and 
he  immediately  recognized  his  wife  and  daughter. 
He  slowly  stopped,  looking  at  them;  I  wondered 
what  he  would  do.  The  salesman  was  holding  up 
a  bracelet  before  them,  on  its  velvet  cushion,  and 
flashing  it  about  in  an  irresistible  manner. 

Mr.  Buck  said  nothing,  but  he  presently  went  in, 
and  I  did  the  same. 

"  It  will  be  an  opportunity,"  I  remarked,  as  cheer- 
fully as  possible,  "  for  me  to  bid  good-by  to  the 
ladies." 

They  turned  round  when  Mr.  Ruck  came  in,  and 
looked  at  him  without  confusion.  "  Well,  you  had 
better  go  home  to  breakfast,"  remarked  his  wife. 
Miss  Sophy  made  no  remark,  but  she  took  the  brace- 
let from  the  attendant  and  gazed  at  it  very  fixedly. 
Mr.  Ruck  seated  himself  on  an  empty  stool  and 
looked  round  the  shop. 

"  Well,  you  have  been  here  before,"  said  his  wife  ; 
"  you  were  here  the  first  day  we  came." 

Miss  Ruck  extended  the  precious  object  in  her 
hands  toward  me.  "  Don't  you  think  that 's  sweet  ? " 
she  inquired. 

I  looked  at  it  a  moment.  "  No,  I  think  it 's  ugly." 
10 


218  THE  PENSION  BE  A  U REP  AS. 

She  glanced  at  me  a  moment,  incredulous.  "Well, 
I  don't  believe  you  have  any  taste." 

"  Why,  sir,  it 's  just  lovely,"  said  Mrs.  Buck. 

"You'll  see  it  some  day  on  me,  any  way,"  her 
daughter  declared. 

"  No,  he  won't,"  said  Mr.  Euck  quietly. 

"It  will  be  his  own  fault,  then,"  Miss  Sophy 
observed. 

"  Well,  if  we  are  going  to  Chamouni  we  want  to 
get  something  here,"  said  Mrs.  Euck.  "  We  may 
not  have  another  chance." 

Mr.  Euck  was  still  looking  round  the  shop, 
whistling  in  a  very  low  tone.  "  We  ain't  going  to 
Chamouni.  We  are  going  to  New  York  City, 
straight." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Mrs.  Euck. 
"  Don't  you  suppose  we  want  to  take  something 
home  ? " 

"  If  we  are  going  straight  back  I  must  have  that 
bracelet,"  her  daughter  declared.  "  Only  I  don't 
want  a  velvet  case ;  I  want  a  satin  case." 

"  I  must  bid  you  good-by,"  I  said  to  the  ladies. 
"  I  am  leaving  Geneva  in  an  hour  or  two." 

"  Take  a  good  look  at  that  bracelet,  so  you  '11  know 
it  when  you  see  it,"  said  Miss  Sophy. 

"  She 's  bound  to  have  something,"  remarked  her 
mother,  almost  proudly. 

Mr.  Euck  was  still  looking  round  the  shop ;  he 
was  still  whistling  a  little.  "  I  am  afraid  he  is  not 
at  all  well,"  I  said,  softly,  to  his  wife. 


THE  PENSION  BEA  UREPAS.  219 

She  twisted  her  head  a  little,  and  glanced  at  him. 

"  Well,  I  wish  he  'd  improve  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"  A  satin  case,  and  a  nice  one  ! "  said  Miss  Buck  to 
the  shopman. 

I  bade  Mr.  Buck  good-by.  "  Don't  wait  for  me," 
he  said,  sitting  there  on  his  stool,  and  not  meeting 
my  eye.  "  I  Ve  got  to  see  this  thing  through." 

I  went  back  to  the  Pension  Beaurepas,  and  when, 
an  hour  later,  I  left  it  with  my  luggage,  the  family 
had  not  returned. 


THE   POINT  OF  VIEW. 


THE   POINT   OF   YIEW. 


I. 


FROM  MISS  AURORA  CHURCH,  AT   SEA,  TO   MISS  WHITE- 
SIDE,  IN  PARIS. 

.  .  .  MY  dear  child,  the  bromide  of  sodium  (if 
that 's  what  you  call  it)  proved  perfectly  useless.  I 
don't  mean  that  it  did  me  no  good,  but  that  I  never 
had  occasion  to  take  the  bottle  out  of  my  bag.  It 
might  have  done  wonders  for  me  if  I  had  needed  it ; 
but  I  did  n't,  simply  because  I  have  been  a  wonder 
myself.  Will  you  believe  that  I  have  spent  the 
whole  voyage  on  deck,  in  the  most  animated  conver- 
sation and  exercise  ?  Twelve  times  round  the  deck 
makes  a  mile,  I  believe ;  and  by  this  measurement 
I  have  been  walking  twenty  miles  a  day.  And  down 
to  every  meal,  if  you  please,  where  I  have  displayed 
the  appetite  of  a  fish- wife.  Of  course  the  weather 
has  been  lovely ;  so  there 's  no  great  merit.  The 
wicked  old  Atlantic  has  been  as  blue  as  the  sapphire 
in  my  only  ring  (a  rather  good  one),  and  as  smooth 
as  the  slippery  floor  of  Madame  Galopin's  dining- 
room.  We  have  been  for  the  last  three  hours  in 
sight  of  land,  and  we  are  soon  to  enter  the  Bay  of 

Copyright,  1882,  by  The  Century  Company. 


224  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

New  York,  which  is  said  to  be  exquisitely  beautiful. 
But  of  course  you  recall  it,  though  they  say  that 
everything  changes  so  fast  over  here.  I  find  I  don't 
remember  anything,  for  my  recollections  of  our  voy- 
age to  Europe,  so  many  years  ago,  are  exceedingly 
dim ;  I  only  have  a  painful  impression  that  mamma 
shut  me  up  for  an  hour  every  day  in  the  state-room, 
and  made  me  learn  by  heart  some  religious  poem. 
I  was  only  five  years  old,  and  I  believe  that  as  a 
child  I  was  extremely  timid ;  on  the  other  hand, 
mamma,  as  you  know,  was  dreadfully  severe.  She 
is  severe  to  this  day ;  only  I  have  become  indifferent ; 
I  have  been  so  pinched  and  pushed  —  morally  speak- 
ing, lien  entendu.  It  is  true,  however,  that  there  are 
children  of  five  on  the  vessel  to-day  who  have  been 
extremely  conspicuous,  —  ranging  all  over  the  ship, 
and  always  under  one's  feet.  Of  course  they  are 
little  compatriots,  which  means  that  they  are  little 
barbarians.  I  don't  mean  that  all  our  compatriots 
are  barbarous ;  they  seem  to  improve,  somehow,  after 
their  first  communion.  I  don't  know  whether  it 's 
that  ceremony  that  improves  them,  —  especially  as 
so  few  of  them  go  in  for  it;  but  the  women  are 
certainly  nicer  than  the  little  girls;  I  mean,  of  course, 
in  proportion,  you  know.  You  warned  me  not  to 
generalize,  and  you  see  I  have  already  begun,  before 
we  have  arrived.  But  I  suppose  there  is  no  harm 
in  it  so  long  as  it  is  favorable.  Isn't  it  favorable 
when  I  say  that  I  have  had  the  most  lovely  time  ? 
I  have  never  had  so  much  liberty  in  my  life,  and  I 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  225 

have  been  out  alone,  as  you  may  say,  every  day  of 
the  voyage.  If  it  is  a  foretaste  of  what  is  to  come, 
I  shall  take  to  that  very  kindly.  When  I  say  that 
I  have  been  out  alone,  I  mean  that  we  have  always 
been  two.  But  we  two  were  alone,  so  to  speak,  and 
it  was  not  like  always  having  mamma,  or  Madame 
Galopin,  or  some  lady  in  tlie  pension,  or  the  temporary 
cook.  Mamma  has  been  very  poorly  ;  she  is  so  very 
well  on  land,  it 's  a  wonder  to  see  her  at  all  taken 
down.  She  says,  however,  that  it  is  n't  the  being  at 
sea ;  it 's,  on  the  contrary,  approaching  the  land.  She 
is  not  in  a  hurry  to  arrive ;  she  says  that  great  dis- 
illusions await  us.  I  did  n't  know  that  she  had  any 
illusions  —  she 's  so  stern,  so  philosophic.  She  is 
very  serious ;  she  sits  for  hours  in  perfect  silence, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon.  I  heard  her  say 
yesterday  to  an  English  gentleman  —  a  very  odd 
Mr.  Antrobus,  the  only  person  with  whom  she  con- 
verses —  that  she  was  afraid  she  should  n't  like  her 
native  land,  and  that  she  should  n't  like  not  liking 
it.  But  this  is  a  mistake  —  she  will  like  that 
immensely  (I  mean  not  liking  it).  If  it  should  prove 
at  all  agreeable,  mamma  will  be  furious,  for  that 
will  go  against  her  system.  You  know  all  about 
mamma's  system;  I  have  explained  that  so  often. 
It  goes  against  her  system  that  we  should  come  back 
at  all ;  that  was  my  system  —  I  have  had  at  last  to 
invent  one !  She  consented  to  come  only  because 
she  saw  that,  having  no  dot,  I  should  never  marry 
in  Europe ;  and  I  pretended  to  be  immensely  pre- 
10* 


226  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

occupied  with  this  idea,  in  order  to  make  her  start. 
In  reality  cela  m'est  parfaitement  egal.  I  am  only 
afraid  I  shall  like  it  too  much  (I  don't  mean  mar- 
riage, of  course,  but  one's  native  land).  Say  what 
you  will,  it 's  a  charming  thing  to  go  out  alone,  and 
I  have  given  notice  to  mamma  that  I  mean  to  be 
always  en  course.  When  I  tell  her  that,  she  looks 
at  me  in  the  same  silence.;  her  eye  dilates,  and  then 
she  slowly  closes  it.  It 's  as  if  the  sea  were  affecting 
her  a  little,  though  it 's  so  beautifully  calm.  I  ask 
her  if  she  will  try  my  bromide,  which  is  there  in  my 
bag ;  but  she  motions  me  off,  and  I  begin  to  walk 
again,  tapping  my  little  boot-soles  upon  the  smooth, 
clean  deck.  This  allusion  to  my  boot-soles,  by  the 
way,  is  not  prompted  by  vanity ;  but  it 's  a  fact  that 
at  sea  one's  feet  and  one's  shoes  assume  the  most 
extraordinary  importance,  so  that  we  should  take  the 
precaution  to  have  nice  ones.  They  are  all  you  seem 
to  see,  as  the  people  walk  about  the  deck ;  you  get 
to  know  them  intimately  and  to  dislike  some  of  them 
so  much.  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  that  I  have 
already  broken  loose ;  and  for  aught  I  know,  I  am 
writing  as  a  demoiselle  bien-elevtfe  should  not  write. 
I  don't  know  whether  it 's  the  American  air ;  if  it  is, 
all  I  can  say  is  that  the  American  air  is  very  charm- 
ing. It  makes  me  impatient  and  restless,  and  I  sit 
scribbling  here  because  I  am  so  eager  to  arrive,  and 
the  time  passes  better  if  I  occupy  myself.  I  am  in 
the  saloon,  where  we  have  our  meals,  and  opposite 
to  me  is  a  big  round  port-hole,  wide  open,  to  let  in 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  227 

the  smell  of  the  land.  Every  now  and  then  I  rise 
a  little  and  look  through  it,  to  see  whether  we  are 
arriving.  I  mean  in  the  Bay,  you  know,  for  we  shall 
not  come  up  to  the  city  till  dark.  I  don't  want  to 
lose  the  Bay ;  it  appears  that  it 's  so  wonderful.  I 
don't  exactly  understand  what  it  contains,  except 
some  beautiful  islands  ;  but  I  suppose  you  will  know 
all  about  that.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  these  are  the 
last  hours,  for  all  the  people  about  me  are  writing 
letters  to  put  into  the  post  as  soon  as  we  come  up 
to  the  dock.  I  believe  they  are  dreadful  at  the 
custom-house,  and  you  will  remember  how  many 
new  things  you  persuaded  mamma  that  (with  my 
preoccupation  of  marriage)  I  should  take  to  this 
country,  where  even  the  prettiest  girls  are  expected 
not  to  go  unadorned.  We  ruined  ourselves  in  Paris 
(that  is  part  of  mamma's  solemnity)  ;  metis  au  moins 
je  serai  belle!  Moreover,  I  believe  that  mamma  is 
prepared  to  say  or  to  do  anything  that  may  be  neces- 
sary for  escaping  from  their  odious  duties ;  as  she 
very  justly  remarks,  she  can't  afford  to  be  ruined 
twice.  I  don't  know  how  one  approaches  these  ter- 
rible douaniers,  but  I  mean  to  invent  something  very 
charming.  I  mean  to  say,  "  Voyons,  Messieurs,  a 
young  girl  like  me,  brought  up  in  the  strictest  foreign 
traditions,  kept  always  in  the  background  by  a  very 
superior  mother  —  la  voila ;  you  can  see  for  your- 
self!—  what  is  it  possible  that  she  should  attempt 
to  smuggle  in  ?  Nothing  but  a  few  simple  relics  of 
her  convent!"  I  won't  tell  them  that  my  convent 


228  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

was  called  the  Mogasin  du  Bon  Marclid.  Mamma 
began  to  scold  me  three  days  ago  for  insisting  on  so 
many  trunks,  and  the  truth  is  that,  between  us,  we 
have  not  fewer  than  seven.  For  relics,  that 's  a  good 
many!  We  are  all  writing  very  long  letters — or 
at  least  we  are  writing  a  great  number.  There  is 
no  news  of  the  Bay  as  yet.  Mr.  Antrobus,  mamma's 
friend,  opposite  to  me,  is  beginning  on  his  ninth. 
He  is  an  Honorable,  and  a  Member  of  Parliament ; 
he  has  written,  during  the  voyage,  about  a  hundred 
letters,  and  he  seems  greatly  alarmed  at  the  number 
of  stamps  lie  will  have  to  buy  when  he  arrives.  He 
is  full  of  information  ;  but  he  has  not  enough,  for  he 
asks  as  many  questions  as  mamma  when  she  goes 
to  hire  apartments.  He  is  going  to  "look  into" 
various  things ;  he  speaks  as  if  they  had  a  little 
hole  for  the  purpose.  He  walks  almost  as  much  as 
I,  and  he  has  very  big  shoes.  He  asks  questions 
even  of  me,  and  I  tell  him  again  and  again  that  I 
know  nothing  about  America.  But  it  makes  no 
difference ;  he  always  begins  again,  and,  indeed,  it  is 
not  strange  that  he  should  find  my  ignorance  incredi- 
ble. "  Now,  how  would  it  be  in  one  of  your  South- 
western States  ? " — that 's  his  favorite  way  of  opening 
conversation.  Fancy  me  giving  an  account  of  the 
Southwestern  States !  I  tell  him  lie  had  better  ask 
mamma  —  a  little  to  tease  that  lady,  who  knows 
no  more  about  such  places  than  I.  Mr.  Antrobus 
is  very  big  and  black ;  he  speaks  with  a  sort  of 
brogue ;  he  has  a  wife  and  ten  children ;  he  is  not 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  229 

very  romantic.  But  he  has  lots  of  letters  to  people 
la-las  (I  forget  that  we  are  just  arriving),  and 
mamma,  who  takes  an  interest  in  him  in  spite  of 
his  views  (which  are  dreadfully  advanced,  and  not 
at  all  like  mamma's  own),  has  promised  to  give  him 
the  entree  to  the  best  society.  I  don't  know  what 
she  knows  about  the  best  society  over  here  to-day, 
for  we  have  not  kept  up  our  connections  at  all,  and 
no  one  will  know  (or,  I  am  afraid,  care)  anything 
about  us.  She  has  an  idea  that  we  shall  be  immensely 
recognized ;  but  really,  except  the  poor  little  Eucks, 
who  are  bankrupt,  and,  I  am  told,  in  no  society  at 
all,  I  don't  know  on  whom  we  can  count.  C'cst 
6gal.  Mamma  has  an  idea  that,  whether  or  not  we 
appreciate  America  ourselves,  we  shall  at  least  be 
universally  appreciated.  It 's  true  that  we  have 
begun  to  be,  a  little ;  you  would  see  that  by  the  way 
that  Mr.  Cockerel  and  Mr.  Louis  Leverett  are  always 
inviting  me  to  walk.  Both  of  these  gentlemen,  who 
are  Americans,  have  asked  leave  to  call  upon  me  in 
New  York,  and  I  have  said,  Mon  Dieu,  oui,  if  it 's 
the  custom  of  the  country.  Of  course  I  have  not 
dared  to  tell  this  to  mamma,  who  flatters  herself  that 
we  have  brought  with  us  in  our  trunks  a  complete 
set  of  customs  of  our  own,  and  that  we  shall  only 
have  to  shake  them  out  a  little  and  put  them  on 
when  we  arrive.  If  only  the  two  gentlemen  I  just 
spoke  of  don't  call  at  the  same  time,  I  don't  think 
I  shall  be  too  much  frightened.  If  they  do,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  won't  answer  for  it.  They  have  a  par- 


230  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

ticular  aversion  to  each  other,  and  they  are  ready 
to  fight  about  poor  little  me.  I  am  only  the  pretext, 
however;  for,  as  Mr.  Leverett  says,  it's  really  the 
opposition  of  temperaments.  I  hope  they  won't  cut 
each  other's  throats,  for  I  am  not  crazy  about  either 
of  them.  They  are  very  well  for  the  deck  of  a  ship, 
but  I  should  n't  care  about  them  in  a  salon ;  they 
are  not  at  all  distinguished.  They  think  they  are, 
but  they  are  not;  at  least,  Mr.  Louis  Leverett  does; 
Mr.  Cockerel  does  n't  appear  to  care  so  much.  They 
are  extremely  different  (with  their  opposed  tempera- 
ments), and  each  very  amusing  for  a  while;  but  I 
should  get  dreadfully  tired  of  passing  my  life  with 
either.  Neither  has  proposed  that,  as  yet ;  but  it  is 
evidently  what  they  are  coming  to.  It  will  be  in 
a  great  measure  to  spite  each  other,  for  I  think  that 
ail,  fond  they  don't  quite  believe  in  me.  If  they 
don't,  it 's  the  only  point  on  which  they  agree.  They 
hate  each  other  awfully ;  they  take  such  different 
views.  That  is,  Mr.  Cockerel  hates  Mr.  Leverett  — 
he  calls  him  a  sickly  little  ass;  he  says  that  his 
opinions  are  half  affectation,  and  the  other  half  dys- 
pepsia. Mr.  Leverett  speaks  of  Mr.  Cockerel  as  a 
"strident  savage,"  but  he  declares  he  finds  him  most 
diverting.  He  says  there  is  nothing  in  which  we 
can't  find  a  certain  entertainment,  if  we  only  look 
at  it  in  the  right  way,  and  that  we  have  no  business 
with  either  hating  or  loving ;  we  ought  only  to  strive 
to  understand.  To  understand  is  to  forgive,  he  says. 
That  is  very  pretty,  but  I  don't  like  the  suppression 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  231 

of  our  affections,  though  I  have  no  desire  to  fix  mine 
upon  Mr.  Leverett,  He  is  very  artistic,  and  talks 
like  an  article  in  some  review.  He  has  lived  a  great 
deal  in  Paris,  and  Mr.  Cockerel  says  that  is  what  has 
made  him  such  an  idiot.  That  is  not  complimentary 
to  you,  dear  Louisa,  and  still  less  to  your  brilliant 
brother ;  for  Mr.  Cockerel  explains  that  he  means 
it  (the  bad  effect  of  Paris)  chiefly  of  the  men.  In 
fact,  he  means  the  bad  effect  of  Europe  altogether. 
This,  however,  is  compromising  to  mamma ;  and 
I  am  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  that  (from  what  I  have 
told  him)  he  thinks  mamma  also  an  idiot.  (I  am 
not  responsible,  you  know,  —  I  have  always  wanted 
to  go  home.)  If  mamma  knew  him,  which  she 
does  n't,  for  she  always  closes  her  eyes  when  I  pass 
on  his  arm,  she  would  think  him  disgusting.  Mr. 
Leverett,  however,  tells  me  he  is  nothing  to  what 
we  shall  see  yet.  He  is  from  Philadelphia  (Mr. 
Cockerel) ;  he  insists  that  we  shall  go  and  see  Phila- 
delphia, but  mamma  says  she  saw  it  in  1855,  and  it 
was  then  affreux.  Mr.  Cockerel  says  that  mamma 
is  evidently  not  familiar  with  the  march  of  improve- 
ment in  this  country ;  he  speaks  of  1855  as  if  it  were 
a  hundred  years  ago.  Mamma  says  she  knows  it 
goes  only  too  fast — it  goes  so  fast  that  it  has  time  to 
do  nothing  well ;  and  then  Mr.  Cockerel,  who,  to  do 
him  justice,  is  perfectly  good-natured,  remarks  that 
she  had  better  wait  till  she  has  been  ashore  and  seen 
the  improvements.  Mamma  rejoins  that  she  sees 
them  from  here,  the  improvements,  and  that  they 


232  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

give  her  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  (This  little  exchange 
of  ideas  is  carried  on  through  me;  they  have  never 
spoken  to  each  other.)  Mr.  Cockerel,  as  I  say,  is 
extremely  good-natured,  and  he  carries  out  what  I 
have  heard  said  about  the  men  in  America  being 
very  considerate  of  the  women.  They  evidently 
listen  to  them  a  great  deal;  they  don't  contradict 
them,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  rather  negative. 
There  is  very  little  gallantry  in  not  contradicting 
one;  and  it  strikes  me  that  there  are  some  things 
the  men  don't  express.  There  are  others  on  the  ship 
whom  I  've  noticed.  It 's  as  if  they  were  all  one's 
brothers  or  one's  cousins.  But  I  promised  you  not 
to  generalize,  and  perhaps  there  will  be  more  expres- 
sion when  we  arrive.  Mr.  Cockerel  returns  to  Amer- 
ica, after  a  general  tour,  with  a  renewed  conviction 
that  this  is  the  only  country.  I  left  him  on  deck  an 
hour  ago,  looking  at  the  coast-line  with  an  opera- 
glass,  and  saying  it  was  the  prettiest  thing  he  had 
seen  in  all  his  tour.  When  I  remarked  that  the 
coast  seemed  rather  low,  he  said  it  would  be  all  the 
easier  to  get  ashore.  Mr.  Leverett  does  n't  seem  in 
a  hurry  to  get  ashore ;  he  is  sitting  within  sight  of 
me  in  a  corner  of  the  saloon  —  writing  letters,  I  sup- 
pose, but  looking,  from  the  way  he  bites  his  pen  and 
rolls  his  eyes  about,  as  if  he  were  composing  a  sonnet 
and  waiting  for  a  rhyme.  Perhaps  the  sonnet  is 
addressed  to  me ;  but  I  forget  that  he  suppresses  the 
affections  !  The  only  person  in  whom  mamma  takes 
much  interest  is  the  great  French  critic,  M.  Lejaune, 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  233 

whom  we  have  the  honor  to  carry  with  us.  We 
have  read  a  few  of  his  works,  though  mamma  dis- 
approves of  his  tendencies  and  thinks  him  a  dreadful 
materialist.  We  have  read  them  for  the  style ;  you 
know  he  is  one  of  the  new  Academicians.  He  is  a 
Frenchman  like  any  other,  except  that  he  is  rather 
more  quiet;  and  he  has  a  gray  mustache  and  the 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  He  is  the  first 
French  writer  of  distinction  who  has  been  to  America 
since  De  Tocqueville ;  the  French,  in  such  matters, 
are  not  very  enterprising.  Also,  he  has  the  air  of 
wondering  what  he  is  doing  dans  cette  galore.  He 
has  come  with  his  beau-fr&re,  who  is  an  engineer, 
and  is  looking  after  some  mines,  and  he  talks  with 
scarcely  any  one  else,  as  he  speaks  no  English  and 
appears  to  take  for  granted  that  no  one  speaks  French. 
Mamma  would  be  delighted  to  assure  him  of  the 
contrary ;  she  has  never  conversed  with  an  Academi- 
cian. She  always  makes  a  little  vague  inclination, 
with  a  smile,  when  he  passes  her,  and  he  answers 
with  a  most  respectful  bow ;  but  it  goes  no  further, 
to  mamma's  disappointment.  He  is  always  with 
the  beau-fr&re,  a  rather  untidy,  fat,  bearded  man,  — 
decorated,  too,  always  smoking  and  looking  at  the 
feet  of  the  ladies,  whom  mamma  (though  she  has 
very  good  feet)  has  not  the  courage  to  aborder.  I 
believe  M.  Lejaune  is  going  to  write  a  book  about 
America,  and  Mr.  Leverett  says  it  will  be  terrible. 
Mr.  Leverett  has  made  his  acquaintance,  and  says 
M.  Lejaune  will  put  him  into  his  book ;  he  says  the 


234  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

movement  of  the  French  intellect  is  superb.  As  a 
general  thing  he  does  n't  care  for  Academicians,  but 
he  thinks  M.  Lejaune  is  an  exception,  he  is  so  living, 
so  personal.  I  asked  Mr.  Cockerel  what  he  thought  of 
M.  Lejaune's  plan  of  writing  a  book,  and  he  answered 
that  he  didn't  see  what  it  mattered  to  him  that  a 
Frenchman  the  more  should  make  a  monkey  of  him- 
self. I  asked  him  why  he  hadn't  written  a  book  about 
Europe,  and  he  said  that,  in  the  first  place,  Europe 
is  n't  worth  writing  about,  and,  in  the  second,  if  he 
said  what  he  thought,  people  would  think  it  was  a 
joke.  He  said  they  are  very  superstitious  about  Europe 
over  here ;  he  wants  people  in  America  to  behave 
as  if  Europe  did  n't  exist.  I  told  this  to  Mr. 
Leverett,  and  he  answered  that  if  Europe  didn't 
exist  America  would  n't,  for  Europe  keeps  us  alive 
by  buying  our  corn.  He  said,  also,  that  the  trouble 
with  America  in  the  future  will  be  that  she  will 
produce  things  in  such  enormous  quantities  that 
there  won't  be  enough  people  in  the  rest  of  the  world 
to  buy  them,  and  that  we  shall  be  left  with  our  pro- 
ductions —  most  of  them  very  hideous  —  on  our 
hands.  I  asked  him  if  he  thought  corn  a  hideous 
production,  and  he  replied  that  there  is  nothing  more 
unbeautiful  than  too  much  food.  I  think  that  to 
feed  the  world  too  well,  however,  that  will  be,  after 
all,  a  beau  rdle.  Of  course  I  dont  understand  these 
things,  and  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Leverett  does;  but 
Mr.  Cockerel  seems  to  know  what  he  is  talking 
about,  and  he  says  that  America  is  complete  in  her- 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  235 

self.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  he  means,  but  he 
speaks  as  if  human  affairs  had  somehow  moved  over 
to  this  side  of  the  world.  It  may  be  a  very  good 
place  for  them,  and  Heaven  knows  I  am  extremely 
tired  of  Europe,  which  mamma  has  always  insisted 
so  on  my  appreciating ;  but  I  don't  think  I  like  the 
idea  of  our  being  so  completely  cut  off.  Mr.  Cockerel 
says  it  is  not  we  that  are  cut  off,  but  Europe,  and  he 
seems  to  think  that  Europe  has  deserved  it  somehow. 
That  may  be  ;  our  life  over  there  was  sometimes 
extremely  tiresome,  though  mamma  says  it  is  now 
that  our  real  fatigues  will  begin.  I  like  to  abuse 
those  dreadful  old  countries  myself,  but  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  am  pleased  when  others  do  the  same. 
We  had  some  rather  pretty  moments  there,  after  all ; 
and  at  Piacenza  we  certainly  lived  on  four  francs  a 
day.  Mamma  is  already  in  a  terrible  state  of  mind 
about  the  expenses  here ;  she  is  frightened  by  what 
people  on  the  ship  (the  few  that  she  has  spoken  to) 
have  told  her.  There  is  one  comfort,  at  any  rate  — 
we  have  spent  so  much  money  in  coming  here  that  we 
shall  have  none  left  to  get  away.  I  am  scribbling 
along,  as  you  see,  to  occupy  me  till  we  get  news 
of  the  islands.  Here  comes  Mr.  Cockerel  to  bring 
it.  Yes,  they  are  in  sight ;  he  tells  me  that  they  are 
lovelier  than  ever,  and  that  I  must  come  right  up 
right  away.  I  suppose  you  will  think  that  I  am 
already  beginning  to  use  the  language  of  the  coun- 
try. It  is  certain  that  at  the  end  of  a  month  I  shall 
speak  nothing  else.  I  have  picked  up  every  dialect, 


236  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

wherever  we  have  travelled ;  you  have  heard  my 
Platt-Deutsch  and  my  Neapolitan.  But,  voyons  un 
pen  the  Bay !  I  have  just  called  to  Mr.  Leverett 
to  remind  him  of  the  islands.  "  The  islands  —  the 
islands  ?  Ah,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  have  seen 
Capri,  I  have  seen  Ischia ! "  Well,  so  have  I,  but 
that  does  n't  prevent  .  .  .  (A  little  later)  —  I  have 
seen  the  islands ;  they  are  rather  queer. 


II. 


MRS.    CHURCH,   IN    NEW    YORK,  TO     MADAME     GALOPIN, 
AT  GENEVA. 

October  17,  1880. 

IF  I  felt  far  away  from  you  in  the  middle  of  that 
deplorable  Atlantic,  ch&re  Madame,  how  do  I  feel  now, 
in  the  heart  of  this  extraordinary  city  ?  We  have 
arrived,  —  we  have  arrived,  dear  friend  ;  hut  I  don't 
know  whether  to  tell  you  that  I  consider  that  an  advan- 
tage. If  we  had  been  given  our  choice  of  coming  safely 
to  land  or  going  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  I  should 
doubtless  have  chosen  the  former  course ;  for  I  hold, 
with  your  noble  husband,  and  in  opposition  to  the 
general  tendency  of  modern  thought,  that  our  lives  are 
not  our  own  to  dispose  of,  but  a  sacred  trust  from  a 
higher  power,  by  whom  we  shall  be  held  responsible. 
Nevertheless,  if  I  had  foreseen  more  vividly  some  of 
the  impressions  that  awaited  me  here,  I  am  not  sure 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  237 

that,  for  my  daughter  at  least,  I  should  not  have 
preferred  on  the  spot  to  hand  in  our  account.  Should 
I  not  have  been  less  (rather  than  more)  guilty  in 
presuming  to  dispose  of  her  destiny,  than  of  my  own  ? 
There  is  a  nice  point  for  dear  M.  Galopin  to  settle  — 
one  of  those  points  which  I  have  heard  him  discuss 
in  the  pulpit  with  such  elevation.  We  are  safe,  how- 
ever, as  I  say  ;  by  which  I  mean  that  we  are  physi- 
cally safe.  We  have  taken  up  the  thread  of  our 
familiar  pension-life,  but  under  strikingly  different 
conditions.  We  have  found  a  refuge  in  a  boarding- 
house  which  has  been  highly  recommended  to  me, 
and  where  the  arrangements  partake  of  that  barbarous 
magnificence  which  in  this  country  is  the  only  alter- 
native from  primitive  rudeness.  The  terms,  per 
week,  are  as  magnificent  as  all  the  rest.  The  land- 
lady wears  diamond  ear-rings  ;  and  the  drawing-rooms 
are  decorated  with  marble  statues.  I  should  indeed 
be  sorry  to  let  you  know  how  I  have  allowed  myself 
to  be  rangonntfe ;  and  I  should  be  still  more  sorry  that 
it  should  come  to  the  ears  of  any  of  my  good  friends  in 
Geneva,  who  know  me  less  well  than  you  arid  might 
judge  me  more  harshly.  There  is  no  wine  given  for 
dinner,  and  I  have  vainly  requested  the  person  who 
conducts  the  establishment  to  garnish  her  table  more 
liberally.  She  says  I  may  have  all  the  wine  I  want 
if  I  will  order  it  at  the  merchant's,  and  settle  the 
matter  with  him.  But  I  have  never,  as  you  know, 
consented  to  regard  our  modest  allowance  of  eau 
rougie  as  an  extra ;  indeed,  I  remember  that  it  is 


238  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

largely  to  your  excellent  advice  that  I  have  owed 
my  habit  of  being  firm  on  this  point.  There  are, 
however,  greater  difficulties  than  the  question  of  what 
we  shall  drink  for  dinner,  cliere  Madame.  Still,  I 
have  never  lost  courage,  and  I  shall  not  lose  courage 
now.  At  the  worst,  we  can  re-embark  again,  and 
seek  repose  and  refreshment  on  the  shores  of  your 
beautiful  lake.  (There  is  absolutely  no  scenery 
here !)  We  shall  not,  perhaps,  in  that  case  have 
achieved  what  we  desired,  but  we  shall  at  least  have 
made  an  honorable  retreat.  What  we  desire  —  I 
know  it  is  just  this  that  puzzles  you,  dear  friend ; 
I  don't  think  you  ever  really  comprehended  my 
motives  in  taking  this  formidable  step,  though  you 
were  good  enough,  and  your  magnanimous  husband 
was  good  enough,  to  press  my  hand  at  parting  in  a 
way  that  seemed  to  say  that  you  would  still  be  with 
ine,  even  if  I  was  wrong.  To  be  very  brief,  I  wished 
to  put  an  end  to  the  reclamations  of  my  daughter. 
Many  Americans  had  assured  her  that  she  was 
wasting  her  youth  in  those  historic  lands,  which  it 
was  her  privilege, to  see  so  intimately,  and  this  unfor- 
tunate conviction  had  taken  possession  of  her.  "  Let 
me  at  least  see  for  myself,"  she  used  to  say ;  "  if  I 
should  dislike  it  over  there  as  much  as  you  promise 
me,  so  much  the  better  for  you.  In  that  case  we 
will  come  back  and  make  a  new  arrangement  at 
Stuttgart."  The  experiment  is  a  terribly  expensive 
one;  but  you  know  that  my  devotion  never  has 
shrunk  from  an  ordeal.  There  is  another  point, 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  239 

moreover,  which,  from  a  mother  to  a  mother,  it  would 
be  affectation  not  to  touch  upon.  I  remember  the 
just  satisfaction  with  which  you  announced  to  me  the 
betrothal  of  your  charming  Cecile.  You  know  with 
what  earnest  care  my  Aurora  has  been  educated,  — 
how  thoroughly  she  is  acquainted  with  the  principal 
results  of  modern  research.  We  have  always  studied 
together  ;  we  have  always  enjoyed  together.  It  will 
perhaps  surprise  you  to  hear  that  she  makes  these 
very  advantages  a  reproach  to  me,  —  represents  them 
as  an  injury  to  herself.  "  In  this  country,"  she  says, 
"  the  gentlemen  have  not  those  accomplishments ; 
they  care  nothing  for  the  results  of  modern  research ; 
and  it  will  not  help  a  young  person  to  be  sought  in 
marriage  that  she  can  give  an  account  of  the  last 
German  theory  of  Pessimism."  That  is  possible ; 
and  I  have  never  concealed  from  her  that  it  was  not 
for  this  country  that  I  had  educated  her.  If  she 
marries  in  the  United  States,  it  is,  of  course,  my 
intention  that  my  son-in-law  shall  accompany  us  to 
Europe.  But,  when  she  calls  my  attention  more  and 
more  to  these  facts,  I  feel  that  we  are  moving  in  a 
different  world.  This  is  more  and  more  the  country 
of  the  many ;  the  few  find  less  and  less  place  for 
them  ;  and  the  individual  —  well,  the  individual  has 
quite  ceased  to  be  recognized.  He  is  recognized  as  a 
voter,  but  he  is  not  recognized  as  a  gentleman  —  still 
less  as  a  lady.  My  daughter  and  I,  of  course,  can 
only  pretend  to  constitute  a  few  !  You  know  that  I 
have  never  for  a  moment  remitted  my  pretensions  as 


240  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

an  individual,  though,  among  the  agitations  of  pension- 
life,  I  have  sometimes  needed  all  my  energy  to  uphold 
them.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  may  be  poor,"  I  have  had  occasion 
to  say,  "  I  may  be  unprotected,  I  may  be  reserved,  I 
may  occupy  a  small  apartment  in  the  quatrieme,  and 
be  unable  to  scatter  unscrupulous  bribes  among  the 
domestics ;  but  at  least  I  am  a  person,  with  personal 
rights."  In  this  country  the  people  have  rights,  but 
the  person  has  none.  You  would  have  perceived  that 
if  you  had  come  with  me  to  make  arrangements  at  this 
establishment.  The  very  fine  lady  who  condescends 
to  preside  over  it  kept  me  waiting  twenty  minutes, 
and  then  came  sailing  in  without  a  word  of  apology. 
I  had  sat  very  silent,  with  my  eyes  on  the  clock ; 
Aurora  amused  herself  with  a  false  admiration  of  the 
room, — a  wonderful  drawing-room,  with  magenta 
curtains,  frescoed  walls,  and  photographs  of  the  laud- 
lady's  friends  —  as  if  one  cared  anything  about  her 
friends  !  When  this  exalted  personage  came  in,  she 
simply  remarked  that  she  had  just  been  trying  on  a 
dress  —  that  it  took  so  long  to  get  a  skirt  to  hang. 
"  It  seems  to  take  very  long,  indeed  ! "  I  answered. 
"But  I  hope  the  skirt  is  right  at  last.  You  might 
have  sent  for  us  to  come  up  and  look  at  it ! "  She 
evidently  didn't  understand,  and  when  I  asked  her 
to  show  us  her  rooms,  she  handed  us  over  to  a  negro 
as  degingande  as  herself.  While  we  looked  at  them, 
I  heard  her  sit  down  to  the  piano  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  she  began  to  sing  an  air  from  a  comic  opera. 
I  began  to  fear  we  had  gone  quite  astray ;  I  did  n't 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  241 

know  in  what  house  we  could  be,  and  was  only 
reassured  by  seeing  a  Bible  in  every  room.  When 
we  came  down  our  musical  hostess  expressed  no  hope 
that  the  rooms  had  pleased  us,  and  seemed  quite 
indifferent  to  our  taking  them.  She  would  not  con- 
sent, moreover,  to  the  least  diminution,  and  was 
inflexible,  as  I  told  you,  on  the  subject  of  wine. 
When  I  pushed  this  point,  she  was  so  good  as  to 
observe  that  she  did  n't  keep  a  cabaret.  One  is  not 
in  the  least  considered ;  there  is  no  respect  for  one's 
privacy,  for  one's  preferences,  for  one's  reserves. 
The  familiarity  is  without  limits,  and  I  have  already 
made  a  dozen  acquaintances,  of  whom  I  know,  and 
wish  to  know,  nothing.  Aurora  tells  me  that  she  is 
the  "belle  of  the  boarding-house."  It  appears  that 
this  is  a  great  distinction.  It  brings  me  back  to  my 
poor  child  and  her  prospects.  She  takes  a  very  critical 
view  of  them  herself ;  she  tells  me  that  I  have  given 
her  a  false  education,  and  that  no  one  will  marry 
her  to-day.  No  American  will  marry  her,  because 
she  is  too  much  of  a  foreigner,  and  no  foreigner  will 
marry  her,  because  she  is  too  much  of  an  A'merican.  I 
remind  her  that  scarcely  a  day  passes  that  a  foreigner, 
usually  of  distinction,  does  n't  select  an  American 
bride,  and  she  answers  me  that  in  these  cases  the 
young  lady  is  not  married  for  her  fine  eyes.  Not 
always,  I  reply ;  and  then  she  declares  that  she  would 
marry  no  foreigner  who  should  not  be  one  of  the  first 
of  the  first.  You  will  say,  doubtless,  that  she  should 
content  herself  with  advantages  that  have  not  been 

11 


242  THE  POINT  OF  VIE  W. 

deemed  insufficient  for  Cecile  ;  but  I  will  not  repeat 
to  you  the  remark  she  made  when  I  once  made  use 
of  this  argument.  You  will  doubtless  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  I  have  ceased  to  argue ;  but  it  is  time  I 
should  tell  you  that  I  have  at  last  agreed  to  let  her  act 
for  herself.  She  is  to  live  for  three  months  d  VAmeri- 
caine,  and  I  am  to  be  a  mere  spectator.  You  will 
feel  with  me  that  this  is  a  cruel  position  for  a  cceur 
de  m&re.  I  count  the  days  till  our  three  months  are 
over,  and  I  know  that  you  will  join  with  me  in  my 
prayers.  Aurora  walks  the  streets  alone.  She  goes 
out  in  the  tramway ;  a  voiture  de  place  costs  five 
francs  for  the  least  little  course,.  (I  beseech  you  not 
to  let  it  be  known  that  I  have  sometimes  had  the 
weakness  .  .  .)  My  daughter  is  sometimes  accom- 
panied by  a  gentleman  —  by  a  dozen  gentlemen  ;  she 
remains  out  for  hours,  and  her  conduct  excites  no 
surprise  in  this  establishment.  I  know  but  too  well 
the  emotions  it  will  excite  in  your  quiet  home.  If 
you  betray  us,  chere  Madame,  we  are  lost ;  and  why, 
after  all,  should  any  one  know  of  these  things  in 
Geneva  ?  Aurora  pretends  that  she  has  been  able 
to  persuade  herself  that  she  does  n't  care  who  knows 
them ;  but  there  is  a  strange  expression  in  her  face, 
which  proves  that  her  conscience  is  not  at  rest.  I 
watch  her,  I  let  her  go,  but  I  sit  with  my  hands 
clasped.  There  is  a  peculiar  custom  in  this  country 

—  I  should  n't  know  how  to  express  it  in  Genevese 

—  it  is  called  "  being  attentive,"  and  young  girls  are 
the   object   of  the   attention.     It   has   not   necessa- 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  243 

rily  anything  to  do  with  projects  of  marriage, — 
though  it  is  the  privilege  only  of  the  unmarried,  and 
though,  at  the  same  time  (fortunately,  and  this  may 
surprise  you),  it  has  no  relation  to  other  projects.  It 
is  simply  an  invention  by  which  young  persons  of 
the  two  sexes  pass  their  time  together.  How  shall  I 
muster  courage  to  tell  you  that  Aurora  is  now 
engaged  in  this  ddassement,  in  company  with  several 
gentlemen  ?  Though  it  has  no  relation  to  marriage, 
it  happily  does  not  exclude  it,  and  marriages  have 
been  known  to  take  place  in  consequence  (or  in  spite) 
of  it.  It  is  true  that  even  in  this  country  a  young 
lady  may  marry  but  one  husband  at  a  time,  whereas 
she  may  receive  at  once  the  attentions  of  several 
gentlemen,  who  are  equally  entitled  "admirers." 
My  daughter,  then,  has  admirers  to  an  indefinite 
number.  You  will  think  I  am  joking,  perhaps,  when 
I  tell  you  that  I  am  unable  to  be  exact  —  I  who  was 
formerly  V  exactitude  meme.  Two  of  these  gentlemen 
are,  to  a  certain  extent,  old  friends,  having  been  pas- 
sengers on  the  steamer  which  carried  us  so  far  from 
you.  One  of  them,  still  young,  is  typical  of  the 
American  character,  but  a  respectable  person,  and  a 
lawyer  in  considerable  practice.  Every  one  in  this 
country  follows  a  profession  ;  but  it  must  be  admitted 
that  the  professions  are  more  highly  remunerated 
than  chez  vous.  Mr.  Cockerel,  even  while  I  write 
you,  is  in  complete  possession  of  my  daughter.  He 
called  for  her  an  hour  ago  in  a  "  boghey,"  —  a 
strange,  unsafe,  rickety  vehicle,  mounted  on  enormous 


244  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

wheels,  which  holds  two  persons  very  near  together ; 
and  I  watched  her  from  the  window  take  her  place 
at  his  side.  Then  he  whirled  her  away,  behind  two 
little  horses  with  terribly  thin  legs ;  the  whole  equi- 
page—  and  most  of  all  her  being  in  it  —  was  in  the 
most  questionable  taste.  But  she  will  return,  and 
she  will  return  very  much  as  she  went.  It  is  the 
same  when  she  goes  down  to  Mr.  Louis  Leverett,  who 
has  no  vehicle,  and  who  merely  comes  and  sits  with 
her  in  the  front  salon.  He  has  lived  a  great  deal  in 
Europe,  and  is  very  fond  of  the  arts,  and  though  I 
am  not  sure  I  agree  with  him  in  his  views  of  the 
relation  of  art  to  life  and  life  to  art,  and  in  his  inter- 
pretation of  some  of  the  great  works  that  Aurora  and 
I  have  studied  together,  he  seems  to  me  a  sufficiently 
serious  and  intelligent  young  man.  I  do  not  regard 
him  as  intrinsically  dangerous ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  offers  absolutely  no  guarantees.  I  have  no 
means  whatever  of  ascertaining  his  pecuniary  situa- 
tion. There  is  a  vagueness  on  these  points  which  is 
extremely  embarrassing,  and  it  never  occurs  to  young 
men  to  offer  you  a  reference.  In  Geneva  I  should 
not  be  at  a  loss  ;  I  should  come  to  you,  ch&re  Madame, 
with  my  little  inquiry,  and  what  you  should  not  be 
able  to  tell  me  would  not  be  worth  knowing.  But 
no  one  in  New  York  can  give  me  the  smallest  infor- 
mation about  the  &at  de  fortune  of  Mr.  Louis  Leverett. 
It  is  true  that  he  is  a  native  of  Boston,  where  most 
of  his  friends  reside;  I  cannot,  however,  go  to  the 
expense  of  a  journey  to  Boston  simply  to  learn, 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  245 

perhaps,  that  Mr.  Leverett  (the  young  Louis)  has  an 
income  of  five  thousand  francs.  As  I  say,  however, 
he  does  not  strike  me  as  dangerous.  When  Aurora 
comes  back  to  me,  after  having  passed  an  hour  with 
the  young  Louis,  she  says  that  lie  has  described  to 
her  his  emotions  on  visiting  the  home  of  Shelley,  or 
discussed  some  of  the  differences  between  the  Boston 
Temperament  and  that  of  the  Italians  of  the  Renais- 
sance. You  will  not  enter  into  these  rapprochements, 
and  I  can't  blame  you.  But  you  won't  betray  me, 
chlre  Madame  ? 


III. 


FROM   MISS   STURDY,  AT  NEWPORT,  TO   MRS.   DRAPER, 
IN  FLORENCE. 

September  30. 

I  PROMISED  to  tell  you  how  I  like  it,  but  the  truth 
is,  I  have  gone  to  and  fro  so  often  that  I  have  ceased 
to  like  and  dislike.  Nothing  strikes  me  as  unex- 
pected ;  I  expect  everything  in  its  order.  Then,  too, 
you  know,  I  am  not  a  critic ;  I  have  no  talent  for 
keen  analysis,  as  the  magazines  say ;  I  don't  go  into 
the  reasons  of  things.  It  is  true  I  have  been  for  a 
longer  time  than  usual  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  water, 
and  I  admit  that  I  feel  a  little  out  of  training  for 
American  life.  They  are  breaking  me  in  very  fast, 
however.  I  don't  mean  that  they  bully  me ;  I  abso- 
lutely decline  to  be  bullied.  I  say  what  I  think, 
because  I  believe  that  I  have,  on  the  whole,  the 


246  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

advantage  of  knowing  what  I  think  —  when  I  think 
anything  —  which  is  half  the  battle.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  I  think  nothing  at  all.  They  don't  like  that 
over  here ;  they  like  yqu  to  have  impressions.  That 
they  like  these  impressions  to  be  favorable  appears  to 
me  perfectly  natural ;  I  don't  make  a  crime  to  them 
of  that ;  it  seems  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  a  very  amia- 
ble quality.  When  individuals  have  it,  we  call  them 
sympathetic ;  I  don't  see  why  we  should  n't  give 
nations  the  same  benefit.  But  there  are  things  I 
have  n't  the  least  desire  to  have  an  opinion  about. 
The  privilege  of  indifference  is  the  dearest  one  we 
possess,  and  I  hold  that  intelligent  people  are  known 
by  the  way  they  exercise  it.  Life  is  full  of  rubbish, 
and  we  have  at  least  our  share  of  it  over  here.  When 
you  wake  up  in  the  morning  you  find  that  during  the 
night  a  cartload  has  been  deposited  in  your  front 
garden.  I  decline,  however,  to  have  any  of  it  in  my 
premises ;  there  are  thousands  of  things  I  want  to 
know  nothing  about.  I  have  outlived  the  necessity 
of  being  hypocritical;  I  have  nothing  to  gain  and 
everything  to  lose.  When  one  is  fifty  years  old  — 
single,  stout,  and  red  in  the  face  —  one  has  outlived 
a  good  many  necessities.  They  tell  me  over  here 
that  my  increase  of  weight  is  extremely  marked, 
and  though  they  don't  tell  me  that  I  am  coarse, 
I  am  sure  they  think  me  so.  There  is  very  little 
coarseness  here — not  quite  enough,  I  think — though 
there  is  plenty  of  vulgarity,  which  is  a  very  different 
thing.  On  the  whole,  the  country  is  becoming  much 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  247 

more  agreeable.  It  is  n't  that  the  people  are  charm- 
ing, for  that  they  always  were  (the  best  of  them,  I 
mean,  for  it  is  n't  true  of  the  others),  but  that  places 
and  things  as  well  have  acquired  the  art  of  pleasing. 
The  houses  are  extremely  good,  and  they  look  so 
extraordinarily  fresh  and  clean.  European  interiors,  in 
comparison,  seem  musty  and  gritty.  We  have  a  great 
deal  of  taste ;  I  should  n't  wonder  if  we  should  end 
by  inventing  something  pretty ;  we  only  need  a  little 
time.  Of  course,  as  yet,  it 's  all  imitation,  except,  by 
the  way,  these  piazzas.  I  am  sitting  on  one  now  ;  I 
am  writing  to  you  with  my  portfolio  on  my  knees. 
This  broad,  light  loggia  surrounds  the  house  with  a 
movement  as  free  as  the  expanded  wings  of  a  bird, 
and  the  wandering  airs  come  up  from  the  deep  sea, 
which  murmurs  on  the  rocks  at  the  end  of  the  lawn. 
Newport  is  more  charming  even  than  you  remember 
it;  like  everything  else  over  here,  it  has  improved. 
It  is  very  exquisite  to-day ;  it  is,  indeed,  I  think,  in 
all  the  world,  the  only  exquisite  watering-place,  for  I 
detest  the  whole  genus.  The  crowd  has  left  it  now, 
which  makes  it  all  the  better,  though  plenty  of  talkers 
remain  in  these  large,  light,  luxurious  houses,  which 
are  planted  with  a  kind  of  Dutch  definiteness  all  over 
the  green  carpet  of  the  cliff.  This  carpet  is  very  neatly 
laid  and  wonderfully  well  swept,  and  the  sea,  just  at 
hand,  is  capable  of  prodigies  of  blue.  Here  and  there 
a  pretty  woman  strolls  over  one  of  the  lawns,  which 
all  touch  each  other,  you  know,  without  hedges  or 
fences ;  the  light  looks  intense  as  it  plays  upon  her 


248  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

brilliant  dress ;  her  large  parasol  shines  like  a  silver 
dome.  The  long  lines  of  the  far  shores  are  soft  and 
pure,  though  they  are  places  that  one  has  n't  the  least 
desire  to  visit.  Altogether  the  effect  is  very  delicate, 
and  anything  that  is  delicate  counts  immensely  over 
here ;  for  delicacy,  I  think,  is  as  rare  as  coarseness. 
I  am  talking  to  you  of  the  sea,  however,  without 
having  told  you  a  word  of  my  voyage.  It  was  very 
comfortable  and  amusing  ;  I  should  like  to  take 
another  next  month.  You  know  I  am  almost  offen- 
sively well  at  sea,  —  that  I  breast  the  weather  and 
brave  the  storm.  We  had  no  storm  fortunately,  and 
I  had  brought  with  me  a  supply  of  light  literature ; 
so  I  passed  nine  days  on  deck  in  my  sea-chair,  with 
my  heels  up,  reading  Tauchnitz  novels.  There  was 
a  great  lot  of  people,  but  no  one  in  particular,  save 
some  fifty  American  girls.  You  know  all  about  the 
American  girl,  however,  having  been  one  yourself. 
They  are,  on  the  whole,  very  nice,  but  fifty  is  too 
many;  there  are  always  too  many.  There  was  an 
inquiring  Briton,  a  radical  M.P.,  by  name  Mr.  Antro- 
bus,  who  entertained  me  as  much  as  any  one  else. 
He  is  an  excellent  man ;  I  even  asked  him  to  come 
down  here  and  spend  a  couple  of  days.  He  looked 
rather  frightened,  till  I  told  him  he  should  n't  be 
alone  with  me,  that  the  house  was  my  brother's,  and 
that  I  gave  the  invitation  in  his  name.  He  came  a 
week  ago ;  he  goes  everywhere ;  we  have  heard  of 
him  in  a  dozen  places.  The  English  are  very  sim- 
ple, or  at  least  they  seem  so  over  here.  Their  old 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  249 

measurements  and  comparisons  desert  them;  they 
don't  know  whether  it 's  all  a  joke,  or  whether  it 's 
too  serious  by  half.  We  are  quicker  than  they, 
though  we  talk  so  much  more  slowly.  We  think 
fast,  and  yet  we  talk  as  deliberately  as  if  we  were 
speaking  a  foreign  language.  They  toss  off  their 
sentences  with  an  air  of  easy  familiarity  with  the 
tongue,  and  yet  they  misunderstand  two  thirds  of 
what  people  say  to  them.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is 
only  our  thoughts  they  think  slowly;  they  think 
their  own  often  to  a  lively  tune  enough.  Mr.  Antro- 
bus  arrived  here  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  I 
don't  know  how  he  managed  it ;  it  appears  to  be  his 
favorite  hour;  wherever  we  have  heard  of  him  he 
has  come  in  with  the  dawn.  In  England,  he  would 
arrive  at  5.30  P.M.  He  asks  innumerable  questions, 
but  they  are  easy  to  answer,  for  he  has  a  sweet  cre- 
dulity. He  made  me  rather  ashamed ;  he  is  a  better 
American  than  so  many  of  us  ;  he  takes  us  more  seri- 
ously than  we  take  ourselves.  He  seems  to  think 
that  an  oligarchy  of  wealth  is  growing  up  here,  and 
lie  advised  me  to  be  on  my  guard  against  it.  I  don't 
know  exactly  what  I  can  do,  but  I  promised  him  to 
look  out.  He  is  fearfully  energetic ;  the  energy  of  the 
people  here  is  nothing  to  that  of  the  inquiring  Briton. 
If  we  should  devote  half  the  energy  to  building  up 
our  institutions  that  they  devote  to  obtaining  infor- 
mation about  them,  we  should  have  a  very  satisfac- 
tory country.  Mr.  Antrobus  seemed  to  think  very 
well  of  us,  which  surprised  me,  on  the  whole,  because, 
11* 


250  THE  POINT  OF  VIE  17. 

say  what  one  will,  it 's  not  so  agreeable  as  England. 
It 's  very  horrid  that  this  should  be ;  and  it 's  delight- 
ful, when  one  thinks  of  it,  that  some  things  in  Eng- 
land are,  after  all,  so  disagreeable.  At  the  same  time, 
Mr.  Antrobus  appeared  to  be  a  good  deal  preoccupied 
with  our  dangers.  I  don't  understand,  quite,  what 
they  are;  they  seem  to  me  so  few,  on  a  Newport 
piazza,  on  this  bright,  still  day.  But,  after  all,  what 
one  sees  on  a  Newport  piazza  is  not  America ;  it 's 
the  back  of  Europe !  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I 
have  n't  noticed  any  dangers  since  my  return  ;  there 
are  two  or  three  that  seem  to  me  very  serious,  but 
they  are  not  those  that  Mr.  Antrobus  means.  One, 
for  instance,  is  that  we  shall  cease  to  speak  the  Eng- 
lish language,  which  I  prefer  so  much  to  any  other. 
It 's  less  and  less  spoken ;  American  is  crowding  it 
out.  All  the  children  speak  American,  and  as  a 
child's  language  it 's  dreadfully  rough.  It 's  exclu- 
sively in  use  in  the  schools;  all  the  magazines  and. 
newspapers  are  in  American.  Of  course,  a  people  of 
fifty  million's,  who  have  invented  a  new  civilization, 
have  a  right  to  a  language  of  their  own ;  that 's  what 
they  tell  me,  and  I  can't  quarrel  with  it.  But  I  wish 
they  had  made  it  as  pretty  as  the  mother-tongue,  from 
which,  after  all,  it  is  more  or  less  derived.  We  ought 
to  have  invented  something  as  noble  as  our  country. 
They  tell  me  it 's  more  expressive,  and  yet  some 
admirable  things  have  been  said  in  the  Queen's  Eng- 
lish. There  can  be  no  question  of  the  Queen  over 
here,  of  course,  and  American  no  doubt  is  the  music 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  251 

of  the  future.  Poor  dear  future,  how  "  expressive  " 
you  11  be !  For  women  and  children,  as  I  say,  it 
strikes  one  as  very  rough ;  and  moreover  they  don't 
speak  it  well,  their  own  though  it  be.  My  little 
nephews,  when  I  first  came  home,  had  not  gone  back 
to  school,  and  it  distressed  me  to  see  that,  though 
they  are  charming  children,  they  had  the  vocal  inflec- 
tions of  little  newsboys.  My  niece  is  sixteen  years  old  ; 
she  has  the  sweetest  nature  possible ;  she  is  extremely 
well-bred,  and  is  dressed  to  perfection.  She  chatters 
from  morning  till  night ;  but  it  is  n't  a  pleasant 
sound !  These  little  persons  are  in  the  opposite 
case  from  so  many  English  girls,  who  know  how  to 
speak,  but  don't  know  how  to  talk.  My  niece  knows 
how  to  talk,  but  does  n't  know  how  to  speak.  A 
propos  of  the  young  people,  that  is  our  other  danger ; 
the  young  people  are  eating  us  up, —  there  is  nothing 
in  America  but  the  young  people.  The  country  is 
•  made  for  the  rising  generation;  life  is  arranged  for 
them ;  they  are  the  destruction  of  society.  People 
talk  of  them,  consider  them,  defer  to  them,  bow  down 
to  them.  They  are  always  present,  and  whenever 
they  are  present  there  is  an  end  to  everything  else. 
They  are  often  very  pretty ;  and  physically,  they  are 
wonderfully  looked  after  ;  they  are  scoured  and 
brushed,  they  wear  hygienic  clothes,  they  go  every 
week  to  the  dentist's.  But  the  little  boys  kick  your 
shins,  and  the  little  girls  offer  to  slap  your  face  ! 
There  is  an  immense  literature  entirely  addressed  to 
them,  in  which  the  kicking  of  shins  and  the  slapping 


252  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

of  faces  is  much  recommended.  As  a  woman  of  fifty, 
I  protest.  I  insist  on  being  judged  by  my  peers. 
It 's  too  late,  however,  for  several  millions  of  little 
feet  are  actively  engaged  in  stamping  out  conversa- 
tion, and  I  don't  see  how  they  can  long  fail  to  keep 
it  under.  The  future  is  theirs;  maturity  will  evi- 
dently be  at  an  increasing  discount.  Longfellow 
wrote  a  charming  little  poem,  called  "  The  Children's 
Hour,"  but  he  ought  to  have  called  it  "  The  Children's 
Century."  And  by  children,  of  course,  I  don't  mean 
simple  infants ;  I  mean  every  tiling  of  less  than  twenty. 
The  social  importance  of  the  young  American  increases 
steadily  up  to  that  age,  and  then  it  suddenly  stops. 
The  young  girls,  of  course,  are  more  important  than 
the  lads ;  but  the  lads  are  very  important  too.  I  am 
struck  with  the  way  they  are  known  and  talked 
about;  they  are  little  celebrities ;  they  have  reputa- 
tions and  pretensions;  they  are  taken  very  seriously. 
As  for  the  young  girls,  as  I  said  just  now,  there  are 
too  many.  You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  I  am  jealous 
of  them,  with  my  fifty  years  and  my  red  face.  I  don't 
think  so,  because  I  don't  suffer ;  my  red  face  does  n't 
frighten  people  away,  and  I  always  find  plenty  of 
talkers.  The  young  girls  themselves,  I  believe,  like 
me  very  much  ;  and  as  for  me,  I  delight  in  the  young 
girls.  They  are  often  very  pretty;  not  so  pretty  as 
people  say  in  the  magazines,  but  pretty  enough.  The 
magazines  rather  overdo  that;  they  make  a  mistake. 
I  have  seen  no  great  beauties,  but  the  level  of  pret- 
tiness  is  high,  and  occasionally  one  'sees  a  woman 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  253 

completely  handsome.  (As  a  general  thing,  a  pretty 
person  here  means  a  person  with  a  pretty  face.  The 
figure  is  rarely  mentioned,  though  there  are  several 
good  ones.)  The  level  of  prettiness  is  high,  but  the 
level  of  conversation  is  low ;  that 's  one  of  the  signs 
of  its  being  a  young  ladies'  country.  There  are  a 
good  many  things  young  ladies  can't  talk  about;  but 
think  of  all  the  things  they  can,  when  they  are  as 
clever  as  most  of  these.  Perhaps  one  ought  to  con- 
tent one's  self  with  that  measure,  but  it 's  difficult  if 
one  has  lived  for  a  while  by  a  larger  one.  This  one 
is  decidedly  narrow;  I  stretch  it  sometimes  till  it 
cracks.  Then  it  is  that  they  call  me  coarse,  which  I 
undoubtedly  am,  thank  Heaven  !  People's  talk  is  of 
course  much  more  chdtide  over  here  than  in  Europe  ; 
I  am  struck  with  that  wherever  I  go.  There  are  cer- 
tain things  that  are  never  said  at  all,  certain  allusions 
that  are  never  made.  There  are  no  light  stories,  no 
propos  risqutfs.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  people 
talk  about,  for  the  supply  of  scandal  is  small,  and 
it 's  poor  in  quality.  They  don't  seem,  however,  to 
lack  topics.  The  young  girls  are  always  there  ;  they 
keep  the  gates  of  conversation  ;  very  little  passes  that 
is  not  innocent.  I  find  we  do  very  well  without 
wickedness  ;  and,  for  myself,  as  I  take  my  ease,  I 
don't  miss  my  liberties.  You  remember  what  I 
thought  of  the  tone  of  your  table  in  Florence,  and 
how  surprised  you  were  when  I  asked  you  why  you 
allowed  such  things.  You  said  they  were  like  the 
courses  of  the  seasons  ;  one  could  n't  prevent  them  ; 


254  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

also  that  to  change  the  tone  of  your  table  you  would 
have  to  change  so  many  other  things.  Of  course,  in 
your  house  one  never  saw  a  young  girl ;  I  was  the 
only  spinster,  and  no  one  was  afraid  of  me  !  Of 
course,  too,  if  talk  is  more  innocent  in  this  country, 
manners  are  so,  to  begin  with.  The  liberty  of  the 
young  people  is  the  strongest  proof  of  it.  The  young 
girls  are  let  loose  in  the  world;  and  the  world  gets 
more  good  of  it  than  ces  demoiselles  get  harm.  In 
your  world  —  excuse  me,  but  you  know  what  I 
mean  —  this  would  n't  do  at  all.  Your  world  is  a 
sad  affair,  and  the  young  ladies  would  encounter  all 
sorts  of  horrors.  Over  here,  considering  the  way 
they  knock  about,  they  remain  wonderfully  simple, 
and  the  reason  is  that  society  protects  them  instead 
of  setting  them  traps.  There  is  almost  no  gallantry, 
as  you  understand  it ;  the  flirtations  are  child's  play. 
People  have  no  time  for  making  love ;  the  men,  in 
particular,  are  extremely  busy.  I  am  told  that  sort 
of  thing  consumes  hours ;  I  have  never  had  any  time 
for  it  myself.  If  the  leisure  class  should  increase 
here  considerably,  there  may  possibly  be  a  change ; 
but  I  doubt  it,  for  the  women  seem  to  me  in  all 
essentials  exceedingly  reserved.  Great  superficial 
frankness,  but  an  extreme  dread  of  complications. 
The  men  strike  me  as  very  good  fellows.  I  think 
that  at  bottom  they  are  better  than  the  women,  who 
are  very  subtle,  but  rather  hard.  They  are  not  so 
nice  to  the  men  as  the  men  are  to  them;  I  mean, 
of  course,  in  proportion,  you  know.  But  women  are 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  255 

not  so  nice  as  men,  "  anyhow,"  as  they  say  here.  The 
men,  of  course,  are  professional,  commercial ;  there 
are  very  few  gentlemen  pure  and  simple.  This  per- 
sonage needs  to  be  very  well  done,  however,  to  be  of 
great  utility ;  and  I  suppose  you  won't  pretend  that 
he  is  always  well  clone  in  your  countries.  When  he  's 
not,  the  less  of  him  the  better.  It 's  very  much  the 
same,  however,  with  the  system  on  which  the  young 
girls  in  this  country  are  brought  up.  (You  see,  I 
have  to  come  back  to  the  young  girls.)  When  it 
succeeds,  they  are  the  most  charming  possible ;  when 
it  does  n't,  the  failure  is  disastrous.  If  a  girl  is  a 
very  nice  girl,  the  American  method  brings  her  to 
great  completeness,  —  makes  all  her  graces  flower ; 
l)ut  if  she  is  n't  nice,  it  makes  her  exceedingly  dis- 
agreeable, —  elaborately  and  fatally  perverts  her.  In 
a  word,  the  American  girl  is  rarely  negative,  and 
when  she  is  n't  a  great  success  she  is  a  great  warn- 
ing. In  nineteen  cases  out  of  twenty,  among  the 
people  who  know  how  to  live  —  I  won't  say  what 
their  proportion  is  —  the  results  are  highly  satisfac- 
tory. The  girls  are  not  shy,  but  I  don't  know  why 
they  should  be,  for  there  is  really  nothing  here  to  be 
afraid  of.  Manners  are  very  gentle,  very  humane; 
the  democratic  system  deprives  people  of  weapons 
that  every  one  does  n't  equally  possess.  No  one  is 
formidable ;  no  one  is  on  stilts ;  no  one  has  great 
pretensions  or  any  recognized  right  to  be  arrogant. 
I  think  there  is  not  much  wickedness,  and  there  is 
certainly  less  cruelty  than  with  you.  Every  one 


256  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

can  sit ;  no  one  is  kept  standing.  One  is  much  less 
liable  to  be  snubbed,  which  you  will  say  is  a  pity. 
I  think  it  is,  to  a  certain  extent ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  folly  is  less  fatuous,  in  form,  than  in  your  coun- 
tries ;  and  as  people  generally  have  fewer  revenges  to 
take,  there  is  less  need  of  their  being  stamped  on  in 
advance.  The  general  good  nature,  the  social  equality, 
deprive  them  of  triumphs  on  the  one  hand,  and  of 
grievances  on  the  other.  There  is  extremely  little 
impertinence ;  there  is  almost  none.  You  will  say 
I  am  describing  a  terrible  society, — a  society  without 
great  figures  or  great  social  prizes.  You  have  hit  it, 
my  dear ;  there  are  no  great  figures.  (The  great  prize, 
of  course,  in  Europe,  is  the  opportunity  to  be  a  great 
figure.)  You  would  miss  these  things  a  good  deal, 
—  you  who  delight  to  contemplate  greatness;  and 
my  advice  to  you,  of  course,  is  never  to  come  back. 
You  would  miss  the  small  people  even  more  than 
the  great ;  every  one  is  middle-sized,  and  you  can 
never  have  that  momentary  sense  of  tallness  which 
is  so  agreeable  in  Europe.  There  are  no  brilliant 
types ;  the  most  important  people  seem  to  lack  dig- 
nity. They  are  very  bourgeois ;  they  make  little 
jokes ;  on  occasion  they  make  puns ;  they  have  no 
form;  they  are  too  good-natured.  The  men  have 
no  style ;  the  women,  who  are  fidgety  and  talk  too 
much,  have  it  only  in  their  coiffure,  where  they  have 
it  superabundantly.  But  I  console  myself  with  the 
greater  bonhomie.  Have  you  ever  arrived  at  an  Eng- 
lish country-house  in  the  dusk  of  a  winter's  day? 


THE  POINT  OF  VIE  W.  257 

Have  you  ever  made  a  call  in  London,  when  you 
knew  nobody  but  the  hostess  ?  People  here  are  more 
expressive,  more  demonstrative;  and  it  is  a  pleasure, 
when  one  comes  back  (if  one  happens,  like  me,  to  be 
no  one  in  particular),  to  feel  one's  social  value  rise. 
They  attend  to  you  more  ;  they  have  you  on  their 
mind;  they  talk  to  you;  they  listen  to  you.  That 
is,  the  men  do ;  the  women  listen  very  little  —  not 
enough.  They  interrupt ;  they  talk  too  much ;  one 
feels  their  presence  too  much  as  a  sound.  I  imagine 
it  is  partly  because  their  wits  are  quick,  and  they 
think  of  a  good  many  things  to  say;  not  that  they 
always  say  such  wonders.  Perfect  repose,  after  all, 
is  not  all  self-control ;  it  is  also  partly  stupidity. 
American  women,  however,  make  too  many  vague 
exclamations,  —  say  too  many  indefinite  things.  In 
short,  they  have  a  great  deal  of  nature.  On  the 
whole,  I  find  very  little  affectation,  though  we  shall 
probably  have  more  as  we  improve.  As  yet,  people 
have  n't  the  assurance  that  carries  those  things  off; 
they  know  too  much  about  each  other.  The  trouble 
is  that  over  here  we  have  all  been  brought  up  to- 
gether. You  will  think  this  a  picture  of  a  dreadfully 
insipid  society  ;  but  I  hasten  to  add  that  it 's  not  all 
so  tame  as  that.  I  have  been  speaking  of  the  people 
that  one  meets  socially ;  and  these  are  the  smallest 
part  of  American  life.  The  others — those  one  meets 
on  a  basis  of  mere  convenience  —  are  much  more 
exciting  ;  they  keep  one's  temper  in  healthy  exercise. 
I  mean  the  people  in  the  shops,  and  on  the  railroads ; 


258  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

the  servants,  the  hackmen,  the  laborers,  every  one  of 
whom  you  buy  anything  or  have  occasion  to  make 
an  inquiry.  With  them  you  need  all  your  best  man- 
ners, for  you  must  always  have  enough  for  two.  If 
you  think  we  are  too  democratic,  taste  a  little  of 
American  life  in  these  walks,  and  you  will  be  reas- 
sured. This  is  the  region  of  inequality,  and  you  will 
find  plenty  of  people  to  make  your  courtesy  to.  You 
see  it  from  below  —  the  weight  of  inequality  is  on 
your  own  back.  You  asked  me  to  tell  you  about 
prices ;  they  are  simply  dreadful. 


IV. 


FROM    THE    HONORABLE    EDWARD    ANTROBUS,    M.P.,    IN 
BOSTON,   TO  THE   HONORABLE   MRS.   ANTROBUS. 

October  17. 

MY  DEAR  SUSAN,  —  I  sent  you  a  post-card  on  the 
13th  and  a  native  newspaper  yesterday ;  I  really  have 
had  no  time  to  write.  I  sent  you  the  newspaper 
partly  because  it  contained  a  report  —  extremely 
incorrect  —  of  some  remarks  I  made  at  the  meeting 
of  the  Association  of  the  Teachers  of  New  England ; 
partly  because  it  is  so  curious  that  I  thought  it  would 
interest  you  and  the  children.  I  cut  out  some  por- 
tions which  I  did  n't  think  it  would  be  well  for  the 
children  to  see  ;  the  parts  remaining  contain  the  most 
striking  features.  Please  point  out  to  the  children 
the  peculiar  orthography,  which  probably  will  be 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  259 

adopted  in  England  by  the  time  they  are  grown  up  ; 
the  amusing  oddities  of  expression,  &c.  Some  of 
them  are  intentional;  you  will  have  heard  of  the 
celebrated  American  humor,  &c.  (remind  me,  by  the 
way,  on  my  return  to  Thistleton,  to  give  you  a  few 
examples  of  it) ;  others  are  unconscious,  and  are  per- 
haps on  that  account  the  more  diverting.  Point 
out  to  the  children  the  difference  (in  so  far  as  you 
are  sure  that  you  yourself  perceive  it).  You  must 
excuse  me  if  these  lines  are  not  very  legible ;  I  am 
writing  them  by  the  light  of  a  railway-lamp,  which 
rattles  above  my  left  ear;  it  being  only  at  odd 
moments  that  I  can  find  time  to  look  into  everything 
that  I  wish  to.  You  will  say  that  this  is  a  very  odd 
moment,  indeed,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  in  bed  in 
a  sleeping-car.  I  occupy  the  upper  berth  (I  will 
explain  to  you  the  arrangement  when  I  return),  while 
the  lower  forms  the  -couch  —  the  jolts  are  fearful  —  of 
an  unknown  female.  You  will  be  very  anxious  for 
my  explanation  ;  but  I  assure  you  that  it  is  the  cus- 
tom of  the  country.  I  myself  am  assured  that  a  lady 
may  travel  in  this  manner  all  over  the  Union  (the 
Union  of  States)  without  a  loss  of  consideration.  In 
case  of  her  occupying  the  upper  berth  I  presume  it 
would  be  different ;  but  I  must  make  inquiries  on  this 
point.  Whether  it  be  the  faict  that  a  mysterious  being 
of  another  sex  has  retired  to  rest  behind  the  same 
curtains,  or  whether  it  be  the  swing  of  the  train, 
which  rushes  through  the  air  with  very  much  the 
same  movement  as  the  tail  of  a  kite,  the  situation  is, 


260  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

at  any  rate,  so  anomalous  that  I  am  unable  to  sleep. 
A  ventilator  is  open  just  over  my  head,  and  a  lively 
draught,  mingled  with  a  drizzle  of  cinders,  pours  in 
through  this  ingenious  orifice.  (I  will  describe  to  you 
its  form  on  my  return.)  If  I  had  occupied  the  lower 
berth  I  should  have  had  a  whole  window  to  myself, 
and  by  drawing  back  the  blind  (a  safe  proceeding  at 
the  dead  of  night),  I  should  have  been  able,  by  the 
light  of  an  extraordinarily  brilliant  moon,  to  see  a 
little  better  what  I  write.  The  question  occurs  to  me, 
however,  —  Would  the  lady  below  me  in  that  case 
have  ascended  to  the  upper  berth  ?  (You  know  my 
old  taste  for  contingent  inquiries.)  I  incline  to  think 
(from  what  I  have  seen)  that  she  would  simply  have 
requested  me  to  evacuate  my  own  couch.  (The 
ladies  in  this  country  ask  for  anything  they  want.) 
In  this  case  I  suppose  I  should  have  had  an  extensive 
view  of  the  country,  which,  from  what  I  saw  of  it 
before  I  turned  in  (while  the  lady  beneath  me  was 
going  to  bed),  offered  a  rather  ragged  expanse,  dotted 
with  little  white  wooden  houses,  which  looked  in  the 
moonshine  like  pasteboard  boxes.  I  have  been  unable 
to  ascertain  as  precisely  as  I  should  wish  by  whom 
these  modest  residences  are  occupied ;  for  they  are  too 
small  to  be  the  homes  of  country  gentlemen,  there  is 
no  peasantry  here,  and  (in  New  England,  for  all  the 
corn  comes  from  the  far  West)  there  are  no  yeomen 
nor  farmers.  The  information  that  one  receives  in 
this  country  is  apt  to  be  rather  conflicting,  but  I  am 
determined  *to  sift  the  mystery  to  the  bottom.  I  have 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  261 

already  noted  down  a  multitude  of  facts  bearing  upon 
the  points  that  interest  me  most,  —  the  operation  of 
the  school-boards,  the  co-education  of  tVe  sexes,  the 
elevation  of  the  tone  of  the  lower  classes,  the  partici- 
pation of  the  latter  in  politic?!  life.  'Political  life, 
indeed,  is  almost  wholly  confined  to  the  lower-middle 
class,  and  the  upper  section  of  the  lower  class.  In 
some  of  the  large  towns,  indeed,  the  lowest  order 
of  all  participates  considerably,  —  a  very  interesting 
phase,  to  which  I  shall  give  more  attention.  It  is 
very  gratifying  to  see  the  taste  for  public  affairs  per- 
vading so  many  social  strata  ;  but  the  indifference  of 
the  gentry  is  a  fact  not  to  be  lightly  considered.  It 
may  be  objected,  indeed,  that  there  are  no  gentry ; 
and  it  is  very  true  that  I  have  not  yet  encountered  a 
character  of  the  type  of  Lord  Bottomley,  —  a  type 
which  I  am  free  to  confess  I  should  be  sorry  to  see 
disappear  from  our  English  system,  if  system  it  may 
be  called,  where  so  much  is  the  growth  of  blind  and 
incoherent  forces.  It  is  nevertheless  obvious  that  an 
idle  and  luxurious  class  exists  in  this  country,  and 
that  it  is  less  exempt  than  in  our  own  from  the  re- 
proach of  preferring  inglorious  ease  to  the  furtherance 
of  liberal  ideas.  It  is  rapidly  increasing,  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  the  indefinite  growth  of  the  dilettante 
spirit,  in  connection  with  large  and  lavishly  expended 
wealth,  is  an  unmixed  good,  even  in  a  society  in  which 
freedom  of  development  has  obtained  so  many  inter- 
esting triumphs.  The  fact  that  this  body  is  not 
represented  in  the  governing  class,  is  perhaps  as 


262  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

much  the  result  of  the  jealousy  with  which  it  is 
viewed  by  the  more  earnest  workers  as  of  its  own —  I 
dare  not,  perhaps,  apply  a  harsher  term  than — levity. 
Such,  at  least,  is  the  impression  I  have  gathered  in 
the  Middle  States  and  in  New  England;  in  the  South- 
west, the  Northwest,  and  the  far  West,  it  will 
doubtless  be  liable  to  correction.  These  divisions  are 
probably  new  to  you;  but  they  are  the  general 
denomination  of  large  and  flourishing  communities, 
with  which  I  hope  to  make  myself  at  least  super- 
ficially acquainted.  The  fatigue  of  traversing,  as  I 
habitually  do,  three  or  four  hundred  miles  at  a  bound, 
is,  of  course,  considerable ;  but  there  is  usually  much 
to  inquire  into  by  the  way.  The  conductors  of  the 
trains,  with  whom  I  freely  converse,  are  often  men  of 
vigorous  and  original  minds,  and  even  6*f  some  social 
eminence.  One  of  them,  a  few  days  ago,  gave  me  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  his  brother-in-law,  who  is 
president  of  a  Western  university.  Don't  have  any 
fear,  therefore,  that  I  am  not  in  the  best  society ! 
The  arrangements  for  travelling  are,  as  a  general  thing, 
extremely  ingenious,  as  you  will  probably  have  inferred 
from  what  I  told  you  above  ;  but  it  must  at  the  same 
time  be  conceded  that  some  of  them  are  more 
ingenious  than  happy.  Some  of  the  facilities,  with 
regard  to  luggage,  the  transmission  of  parcels,  &c., 
are  doubtless  very  useful  when  explained,  but  I  have 
not  yet  succeeded  in  mastering  the  intricacies.  There 
are,  on  the  other  hand,  no  cabs  and  no  porters,  and  I 
have  calculated  that  I  have  myself  carried  my  impedi- 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  263 

menta  —  which,  you  know,  are  somewhat  numerous, 
and  from  which  I  cannot  bear  to  be  separated  —  some 
seventy  or  eighty  miles.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
it  was  a  great  mistake  not  to  bring  Plummeridge ;  he 
would  have  been  useful  on  such  occasions.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  startling  question  would  have  pre- 
sented itself — Who  would  have  carried  Plummeridge's 
portmanteau  ?  He  would  have  been  useful,  indeed, 
for  brushing  and  packing  my  clothes,  and  getting  me 
my  tub;  I  travel  with  a  large  tin  one,  —  there  are 
none  to  be  obtained  at  the  inns,  —  and  the  transport 
of  this  receptacle  often  presents  the  most  insoluble 
difficulties.  It  is  often,  too,  an  object  of  considerable 
embarrassment  in  arrivr  g  at  private  houses,  where 
the  servants  have  less  reserve  of  manner  than  in 
England ;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  by  no 
means  certain  at  the  present  moment  that  the  tub  has 
been  placed  in  the  train  with  me.  "  On  board  "  the 
train  is  the  consecrated  phrase  here ;  it  is  an  allusion 
to  the  tossing  and  pitching  of  the  concatenation  of 
cars,  so  similar  to  that  of  a  vessel  in  a  storm.  As  I 
was  about  to  inquire,  however,  Who  would  get  Plum- 
meridge his  tub,  and  attend  to  his  little  comforts  ? 
We  could  not  very  well  make  our  appearance,  on 
coming  to  stay  with  people,  with  two  of  the  utensils 
I  have  named ;  though,  as  regards  a  single  one,  I  have 
had  the  courage,  as  I  may  say,  of  a  life-long  habit. 
It  would  hardly  be  expected  that  we  should  both  use 
the  same ;  though  there  have  been  occasions  in  my 
travels  as  to  which  I  see  no  way  of  blinking  the  fact 


264  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

that  Plummeridge  would  have  had  to  sit  down  to 
dinner  with  me.  Such  a  contingency  would  com- 
pletely have  unnerved  him;  and,  on  the  whole,  it 
was  doubtless  the  wiser  part  to  leave  him  respectfully 
touching  his  hat  on  the  tender  in  the  Mersey.  No 
one  touches  his  hat  over  here,  and  though  it  is  doubt- 
less the  sign  of  a  more  advanced  social  order,  I  confess 
that  when  I  see  poor  Plummeridge  again,  this  familial- 
little  gesture  —  familiar,  I  mean,  only  in  the  sense 
of  being  often  seen  —  will  give  me  a  measurable 
satisfaction.  You  will  see  from  what  I  tell  you  that 
democracy  is  not  a  mere  word  in  this  country,  and  I 
could  give  you  many  more  instances  of  its  universal 
reign.  This,  however,  is  what  we  come  here  to  look 
at,  and,  in  so  far  as  there  seems  to  be  proper  occasion, 
to  admire ;  though  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  we 
can  hope  to  establish  within  an  appreciable  time  a 
corresponding  change  in  the  somewhat  rigid  fabric  of 
English  manners.  I  am  not  even  prepared  to  affirm 
that  such  a  change  is  desirable ;  you  know  this  is  one 
of  the  points  on  which  I  do  not  as  yet  see  my  way 

to  going  as  far  as  Lord  B .     I  have  always  held 

that  there  is  a  certain  social  ideal  of  inequality  as 
well  as  of  equality,  and  if  I  have  found  the  people 
of  this  country,  as  a  general  thing,  quite  equal  to  each 
other,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  prepared  to  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that,  as  a  whole,  they  are  equal  to  —  excuse 
that  dreadful  blot !  The  movement  of  the  train  and 
the  precarious  nature  of  the  light  —  it  is  close  to  my 
nose,  and  most  offensive  —  would,  I  flatter  myself, 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  265 

long  since  have  got  the  better  of  a  less  resolute 
diarist !  What  I  was  not  prepared  for  was  the  very 
considerable  body  of  aristocratic  feeling  that  lurks 
beneath  this  republican  simplicity.  I  have  on  several 
occasions  been  made  the  confidant  of  these  romantic 
but  delusive  vagaries,  of  which  the  stronghold  appears 
to  be  the  Empire  City,  —  a  slang  name  for  New  York. 
I  was  assured  in  many  quarters  that  that  locality,  at 
least,  is  ripe  for  a  monarchy,  and  if  one  of  the  Queen's 
sons  would  come  and  talk  it  over,  he  would  meet  with 
the  highest  encouragement.  This  information  was 
given  me  in  strict  confidence,  with  closed  doors,  as  it 
were ;  it  reminded  me  a  good  deal  of  the  dreams  of 
the  old  Jacobites,  when  they  whispered  tjieir  messages 
to  the  king  across  the  water.  I  doubt,  however, 
whether  these  less  excusable  visionaries  will  be  able 
to  secure  the  services  of  a  Pretender,  for  I  fear  that 
in  such  a  case  he  would  encounter  a  still  more  fatal 
Culloden.  I  have  given  a  good  deal  of  time,  as  I 
told  you,  to  the  educational  system,  and  have  visited. 
no  fewer  than  one  hundred  and  forty-three  schools 
and  colleges.  It  is  extraordinary,  the  number  of 
persons  who  are  being  educated  in  this  country ;  and 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  the  tone  of  the  people  is  less 
scholarly  than  one  might  expect.  A  lady,  a  few  days 
since,  described  to  me  her  daughter  as  being  always 
"  on  the  go,"  which  I  take  to  be  a  jocular  way  of 
saying  that  the  young  lady  was  very  fond  of  paying 
visits.  Another  person,  the  wife  of  a  United  States 
senator,  informed  me  that  if  I  should  go  to  Washing- 

12 


266  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

ton  in  January,  I  should  be  quite  "  in  the  swiin."  I 
inquired  the  meaning  of  the  phrase,  but  her  explana- 
tion made  it  rather  more  than  less  ambiguous.  To 
say  that  I  am  on  the  go  describes  very  accurately  my 
own  situation.  I  went  yesterday  to  the  Pognanuc 
High  School,  to  hear  fifty-seven  boys  and  girls  recite 
in  unison  a  most  remarkable  ode  to  the  American 
Flag,  and  shortly  afterward  attended  a  ladies'  lunch, 
at  which  some  eighty  or  ninety  of  the  sex  were 
present.  There  was  only  one  individual  in  trousers 
—  his  trousers  by  the  way,  though  he  brought  a 
dozen  pair,  are  getting  rather  seedy.  The  men  in 
America  do  not  partake  of  this  meal,  at  which  ladies 
assemble  in  large  numbers  to  discuss  religious,  politi- 
cal, and  social  topics.  These  immense  female  sym- 
posia (at  which  every  delicacy  is  provided)  are  one  of 
the  most  striking  features  of  American  life,  and 
would  seem  to  prove  that  men  are  not  so  indispensa- 
ble in  the  scheme  of  creation  as  they  sometimes 
suppose.  I  have  been  admitted  on  the  footing  of  an 
Englishman  —  "just  to  show  you  some  of  our  bright 
women,"  the  hostess  yesterday  remarked.  ("  Bright " 
here  has  the  meaning  of  intellectual)  I  perceived, 
indeed,  a  great  many  intellectual  foreheads.  These 
curious  collations  are  organized  according  to  age.  I 
have  also  been  present  as  an  inquiring  stranger  at 
several  "girls'  lunches,"  from  which  married  ladies 
are  rigidly  excluded,  but  where  the  fair  revellers  are 
equally  numerous  and  equally  bright.  There  is  a 
good  deal  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  my  study  of 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  267 

the  educational  question,  but  my  position  is  somewhat 
cramped,  and  I  must  dismiss  it  briefly.  My  leading 
impression  is  that  the  children  in  this  country  are 
better  educated  than  the  adults.  The  position  of  a 
child  is,  on  the  whole,  one  of  great  distinction.  There 
is  a  popular  ballad  of  which  the  refrain,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  is  "  Make  me  a  child  again,  just  for 
to-night ! "  and  which  seems  to  express  the  sentiment 
of  regret  for  lost  privileges.  At  all  events  they  are 
a  powerful  and  independent  class,  and  have  organs, 
of  immense  circulation,  in  the  press.  They  are  often 
extremely  "  bright."  I  have  talked  with  a  great  many 
teachers,  most  of  them  lady-teachers,  as  they  are 
called  in  this  country.  The  phrase  does  not  mean 
teachers  of  ladies,  as  you  might  suppose,  but  applies 
to  the  sex  of  the  instructress,  who  often  has  large 
classes  of  young  men  under  her  control.  I  was  lately 
introduced  to  a  young  woman  of  twenty-three,  who 
occupies  the  chair  of  Moral  Philosophy  and  Belles- 
Lettres  in  a  Western  college,  and  who  told  me  with 
the  utmost  frankness  that  she  was  adored  by  the 
undergraduates.  This  young  woman  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  petty  trader  in  one  of  the  Southwestern 
States,  and  had  studied  at  Amanda  College,  in  Mis- 
sourah,  an  institution  at  which  young  people  of  the 
two  sexes  pursue  their  education  together.  She  was 
very  pretty  and  modest,  and  expressed  a  great  desire 
to  see  something  of  English  country-life,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  I  made  her  promise  to  come  down 
to  Thistleton  in  the  event  of  her  crossing  the  Atlantic. 


268  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

She  is  not  the  least  like  Gwendolen  or  Charlotte,  and 
I  am  not  prepared  to  say  how  they  would  get  on  with 
her;  the  boys  would  probably  do  better.  Still,  I  think 
her  acquaintance  would  be  of  value  to  Miss  Bumpus, 
and  the  two  might  pass  their  time  very  pleasantly  in 
the  school-room.  I  grant  you  freely  that  those  I  have 
seen  here  are  much  less  comfortable  than  the  school- 
room at  Thistleton.  Has  Charlotte,  by  the  way, 
designed  any  more  texts  for  the  walls  ?  I  have  been 
extremely  interested  in  my  visit  to  Philadelphia, 
where  I  saw  several  thousand  little  red  houses  with 
white  steps,  occupied  by  intelligent  artisans,  and 
arranged  (in  streets)  on  the  rectangular  system.  Im- 
proved cooking-stoves,  rosewood  pianos,  gas  and  hot 
water,  aesthetic  furniture,  and  complete  sets  of  the 
British  Essayists.  A  tramway  through  every  street ; 
every  block  of  equal  length ;  blocks  and  houses  scien- 
tifically lettered  and  numbered.  There  is  absolutely 
no  loss  of  time,  and  no  need  of  looking  for  anything, 
or,  indeed,  at  anything.  The  mind  always  on  one's 
object ;  it  is  very  delightful 


V. 


FROM  LOUIS  LEVERETT,  IN  BOSTON,   TO    HARVARD   TRE- 
MONT,  IN  PARIS. 

November. 

THE  scales  have  turned,  my  sympathetic  Harvard, 
and  the  beam  that  has  lifted  you  up  has  dropped  me 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  269 

again  on  this  terribly  hard  spot.     I  am  extremely 
sorry  to  have  missed  you  in  London,  but  I  received 
your  little  note,  and  took  due  heed  of  your  injunction 
to  let  you  know  how  I  got  on.     I  don't  get  on  at  all, 
my  dear  Harvard  —  I  am  consumed  with  the  love  of 
the  farther  shore.     I  have  been  so  long  away  that  I 
have  dropped  out  of  my  place  in  this  little  Boston 
world,  and  the  shallow  tides  of  New  England  life 
have  closed  over  it.     I  am  a  stranger  here,  and  I  find 
it  hard  to  believe  that  I  ever  was  a  native.    It  is  very 
hard,  very  cold,  very  vacant.     I  think  of  your  warm, 
rich  Paris ;  I  think  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  on 
the  mild  spring  evenings.     I  see  the  little  corner  by 
the  window  (of  the  Cafe  de  la  Jeunesse)  where  I 
used  to  sit ;  the  doors  are  open,  the  soft,  deep  breatli 
of  the  great  city  comes  in.    It  is  brilliant,  yet  there  is 
a  kind  of  tone,  of  body,  in  the  brightness ;  the  mighty 
murmur    of    the    ripest   civilization  in   the    world 
comes  in  ;  the  dear  old  peuple  de  Paris,  the   most 
interesting  people  in  the  world,  pass  by.     I  have  a 
little  book  in  my  pocket;  it  is  exquisitely  printed, 
a  modern  Elzevir.     It  is  a  lyric  cry  from  the  heart  of 
young  France,  and  is  full  of  the  sentiment  of  form. 
There  is  no  form  here,  dear  Harvard ;  I  had  no  idea 
how  little  form  there  was.     I  don't  know  what  I 
shall  do  ;  I  feel   so   undraped,   so  uncurtained,  so 
uncushioned ;  I  feel  as  if  I  were  sitting  in  the  centre  of 
a  mighty  "  reflector."     A  terrible  crude  glare  is  over 
everything ;  the  earth  looks  peeled  and  excoriated ; 
the  raw  heavens  seem  to  bleed  with  the  quick,  hard 


270  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

light.  I  have  not  got  back  my  rooms  in  West  Cedar 
street ;  they  are  occupied  by  a  mesmeric  healer.  I 
am  staying  at  an  hotel,  and  it  is  very  dreadful. 
Nothing  for  one's  self;  nothing  for  one's  preferences 
and  habits.  No  one  to  receive  you  when  you  arrive  ; 
you  push  in  through  a  crowd,  you  edge  up  to  a 
counter;  you  write  your  name  in  a  horrible  book, 
where  every  one  may  come  and  stare  at  it  and  finger 
it.  A  man  behind  the  counter  stares  at  you  in 
silence ;  his  stare  seems  to  say  to  you,  "  What  the 
devil  do  you  want  ? "  But  after  this  stare  he  never 
looks  at  you  again.  He  tosses  down  a  key  at  you ; 
he  presses  a  bell ;  a  savage  Irishman  arrives.  "  Take 
him  away,"  he  seems  to  say  to  the  Irishman ;  but  it 
is  all  done  in  silence ;  there  is  no  answer  to  your  own 
speech,  —  "  What  is  to  be  done  with  me,  please  ? " 
"  Wait  and  you  will  see,"  the  awful  silence  seems  to 
say.  There  is  a  great  crowd  around  you,  but  there  is 
also  a  great  stillness ;  every  now  and  then  you  hear 
some  one  expectorate.  There  are  a  thousand  people 
in  this  huge  and  hideous  structure ;  they  feed  to- 
gether in  a  big  white-walled  room.  It  is  lighted  by 
a  thousand  gas-jets,  and  heated  by  cast-iron  screens, 
which  vomit  forth  torrents  of  scorching  air.  The 
temperature  is  terrible ;  the  atmosphere  is  more  so ; 
the  furious  light  and  heat  seem  to  intensify  the 
dreadful  definiteness.  When  things  are  so  ugly, 
they  should  not  be  so  definite ;  and  they  are  terribly 
ugly  here.  There  is  no  mystery  in  the  corners ; 
there  is  no  light  and  shade  in  the  types.  The  people 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  271 

are  haggard  and  joyless ;  they  look  as  if  they  had  no 
passions,  no  tastes,  no  senses.  They  sit  feeding  in 
silence,  in  the  dry,  hard  light ;  occasionally  I  hear 
the  high,  firm  note  of  a  child.  The  servants  are  black 
and  familiar ;  their  faces  shine  as  they  shuffle  about ; 
there  are  blue  tones  in  their  dark  masks.  They  have 
no  manners ;  they  address  you,  but  they  don't  answer 
you ;  they  plant  themselves  at  your  elbow  (it  rubs 
their  clothes  as  you  eat),  and  watch  you  as  if  your 
proceedings  were  strange.  They  deluge  you  with 
iced  water ;  it 's  the  only  thing  they  will  bring  you  ; 
if  you  look  round  to  summon  them,  they  have  gone 
for  more.  If  you  read  the  newspaper,  —  which  I  don't, 
gracious  Heaven!  I  can't,  —  they  hang  over  your 
shoulder  and  peruse  it  also.  I  always  fold  it  up  and 
present  it  to  them ;  the  newspapers  here  are  indeed 
for  an  African  taste.  There  are  long  corridors 
defended  by  gusts  of  hot  air ;  down  the  middle  swoops 
a  pale  little  girl  on  parlor-skates.  "  Get  out  of  my 
way  !  "  she  shrieks  as  she  passes  ;  she  has  ribbons  in 
her  hair  and  frills  on  her  dress  ;  she  makes  the  tour 
of  the  immense  hotel.  I  think  of  Puck,  who  put  a 
girdle  round  the  earth  in  forty  minutes,  and  wonder 
what  he  said  as  he  flitted  by.  A  black  waiter 
marches  past  me,  bearing  a  tray,  which  he  thrusts 
into  my  spine  as  he  goes.  It  is  laden  with  large 
white  jugs  ;  they  tinkle  as  he  moves,  and  I  recognize 
the  unconsoling  fluid.  We  are  dying  of  iced  water, 
of  hot  air,  of  gas.  I  sit  in  my  room  thinking  of  these 
things  —  this  room  of  mine  which  is  a  chamber  of 


272  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

pain.  The  walls  are  white  and  bare,  they  shine  in 
the  rays  of  a  horrible  chandelier  of  imitation  bronze, 
which  depends  from  the  middle  of  the  ceiling.  It 
flings  a  platen  of  shadow  on  a  small  table  covered  with 
white  marble,  of  which  the  genial  surface  supports  at 
the  present  moment  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  I 
address  you ;  and  when  I  go  to  bed  (I  like  to  read  in 
bed,  Harvard)  it  becomes  an  object  of  mockery  and 
torment.  It  dangles  at  inaccessible  heights  ;  it  stares 
me  in  the  face  ;  it  flings  the  light  upon  the  covers  of 
my  book,  but  not  upon  the  page  —  the  little  French 
Elzevir  that  I  love  so  well.  I  rise  and  put  out  the 
gas,  and  then  my  room  becomes  even  lighter  than 
before.  Then  a  crude  illumination  from  the  hall, 
from  the  neighboring  room,  pours  through  the  glass 
openings  that  surmount  the  two  doors  of  my  apart- 
ment. It  covers  my  bed,  where  I  toss  and  groan  ;  it 
beats  in  through  my  closed  lids ;  it  is  accompanied 
by  the  most  vulgar,  though  the  most  human,  sounds. 
I  spring  up  to  call  for  some  help,  some  remedy  ;  but 
.there  is  no  bell,  and  I  feel  desolate  and  weak.  There 
is  only  a  strange  orifice  in  the  wall,  through  which 
the  traveller  in  distress  may  transmit  his  appeal.  I 
fill  it  with  incoherent  sounds,  and  sounds  more  inco- 
herent yet  come  back  to  me.  I  gather  at  last  their 
meaning  ;  they  appear  to  constitute  a  somewhat 
stern  inquiry.  A  hollow,  impersonal  voice  wishes  to 
know  what  I  want,  and  the  very  question  paralyzes 
me.  I  want  everything  —  yet  I  want  nothing, — 
nothing  this  hard  impersonality  can  give  !  I  want 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  273 

my  little  corner  of  Paris  ;  I  want  the  rich,  the  deep, 
the  dark  Old  World  ;  I  want  to  be  out  of  this  horri- 
ble place.  Yet  I  can't  confide  all  this  to  that  mechani- 
cal tube  ;  it  would  be  of  no  use ;  a  mocking  laugh 
would  come  up  from  the  office.  Fancy  appealing  in 
these  sacred,  these  intimate  moments,  to  an  "  office  "  ; 
fancy  calling  out  into  indifferent  space  for  a  candle, 
for  a  curtain  !  I  pay  incalculable  sums  in  this  dread- 
ful house,  and  yet  I  have  n't  a  servant  to  wait  upon 
me.  I  fling  myself  back  on  my  couch,  and  for  a  long 
time  afterward  the  orifice  in  the  wall  emits  strange 
murmurs  and  rumblings.  It  seems  unsatisfied,  indig- 
nant ;  it  is  evidently  scolding  me  for  my  vagueness. 
My  vagueness,  indeed,  dear  Harvard  !  I  loathe  their 
horrible  arrangements ;  is  n't  that  definite  enough  ? 
You  asked  me  to  tell  you  whom  I  see,  and  what  I 
think  of  my  friends.  I  have  n't  very  many  ;  I  don't 
feel  at  all  en  rapport.  The  people  are  very  good,  very 
serious,  very  devoted  to  their  work ;  but  there  is  a 
terrible  absence  of  variety  of  type.  Every  one  is  Mr. 
Jones,  Mr.  Brown  ;  and  every  one  looks  like  Mr. 
Jones  and  Mr.  Brown.  They  are  thin ;  they  are 
diluted  in  the  great  tepid  bath  of  Democracy  !  They 
lack  completeness  of  identity ;  they  are  quite  with- 
out modelling.  No,  they  are  not  beautiful,  my  poor 
Harvard ;  it  must  be  whispered  that  they  are  not 
beautiful.  You  may  say  that  they  are  as  beautiful 
as  the  French,  as  the  Germans  ;  but  I  can't  agree 
with  you  there.  The  French,  the  Germans,  have  the 
greatest  beauty  of  all,  —  the  beauty  of  their  ugliness, 

12* 


274  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

—  the  beauty  of  the  strange,  the  grotesque.  These 
people  are  not  even  ugly ;  they  are  only  plain.  Many 
of  the  girls  are  pretty ;  but  to  be  only  pretty  is  (to 
my  sense)  to  be  plain.  Yet  I  have  had  some  talk. 
I  have  seen  a  woman.  She  was  on  the  steamer,  and  I 
afterward  saw  her  in  New  York,  —  a  peculiar  type,  a 
real  personality ;  a  great  deal  of  modelling,  a  great 
deal  of  color,  and  yet  a  great  deal  of  mystery.  She 
was  not,  however,  of  this  country ;  she  was  a  com- 
pound of  far-off  things.  But  she  was  looking  for 
something  here  —  like  me.  We  found  each  other,  and 
for  a  moment  that  was  enough.  I  have  lost  her  now  ; 
I  am  sorry,  because  she  liked  to  listen  to  me.  She  has 
passed  away  ;  I  shall  not  see  her  again.  She  liked 
to  listen  to  me ;  she  almost  understood ! 


VI. 


FROM   M.  GUSTAVE  LEJAUNE,  OF  THE  FRENCH  ACADEMY, 
TO   M.   ADOLPHE  BOUCHE,   IN  PARIS. 

WASHINGTON,  October  5. 

I  GIVE  you  my  little  notes  ;  you  must  make  allow- 
ances for  haste,  for  bad  inns,  for  the  perpetual  scram- 
ble, for  ill-humor.  Everywhere  the  same  impression, 
—  the  platitude  of  unbalanced  democracy  intensified 
by  the  platitude  of  the  spirit  of  commerce.  Every- 
thing on  an  immense  scale  —  everything  illustrated 
by  millions  of  examples.  My  brother-in-law  is 
always  busy ;  he  has  appointments,  inspections, 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  275 

interviews,  disputes.  The  people,  it  appears,  are 
incredibly  sharp  in  conversation,  in  argument ;  they 
wait  for  you  in  silence  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  and 
then  they  suddenly  discharge  their  revolver.  If  you 
fall,  they  empty  your  pockets ;  the  only  chance  is  to 
shoot  them  first.  With  that,  no  amenities,  no  pre- 
liminaries, no  manners,  no  care  for  the  appearance. 
I  wander  about  while  my  brother  is  occupied ;  I 
lounge  along  the  streets ;  I  stop  at  the  corners ; 
I  look  into  the  shops  ;  je  regarde  passer  les  femmes. 
It 's  an  easy  country  to  see ;  one  sees  everything  there 
is ;  the  civilization  is  skin  deep ;  you  don't  have  to 
dig.  This  positive,  practical,  pushing  bourgeoisie  is 
always  about  its  business ;  it  lives  in  the  street,  in 
the  hotel,  in  the  train ;  one  is  always  in  a  crowd  — 
there  are  seventy-five  people  in  the  tramway.  They 
sit  in  your  lap ;  they  stand  on  your  toes  ;  when  they 
wish  to  pass,  they  simply  push  you.  Everything  in 
silence ;  they  know  that  silence  is  golden,  and  they 
have  the  worship  of  gold.  When  the  conductor  wishes 
your  fare,  he  gives  you  a  poke,  very  serious,  without 
a  word.  As  for  the  types  — but  there  is  only  one  — 
they  are  all  variations  of  the  same  —  the  commis- 
voyageur  minus  the  gayety.  The  women  are  often 
pretty;  you  meet  the  young  ones  in  the  streets,  in 
the  trains,  in  search  of  a  husband.  They  look  at  you 
frankly,  coldly,  judicially,  to  see  if  you  will  serve  ;  but 
they  don't  want  what  you  might  think  (du  moins  on 
me  V assure);  they  only  want  the  husband.  A  French- 
man may  mistake  ;  he  needs  to  be  sure  he  is  right, 


276  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

and  I  always  make  sure.  They  begin  at  fifteen  ;  the 
mother  sends  them  out;  it  lasts  all  day  (with  an 
interval  for  dinner  at  a  pastry-cook's) ;  sometimes  it 
goes  on  for  ten  years.  If  they  haven't  found  the 
husband  then,  they  give  it  up ;  they  make  place  for 
the  cadcttes,  as  the  number  of  women  is  enormous. 
No  salons,  no  society,  no  conversation ;  people  don't 
receive  at  home ;  the  young  girls  have  to  look  for  the 
husband  where  they  can.  It  is  no  disgrace  not  to 
find  him  —  several  have  never  done  so.  They  con- 
tinue to  go  about  unmarried  —  from  the  force  of 
habit,  from  the  love  of  movement,  without  hopes, 
without  regrets  —  no  imagination,  no  sensibility,  no 
desire  for  the  convent.  We  have  made  several  journeys, 
—  few  of  less  than  three  hundred  miles.  Enormous 
trains,  enormous  wagons,  with  beds  and  lavatories, 
and  negroes  who  brush  you  with  a  big  broom,  as 
if  they  were  -grooming  a  horse.  A  bounding  move- 
ment, a  roaring  noise,  a  crowd  of  people  who  look 
horribly  tired,  a  boy  who  passes  up  and  down  throw- 
ing pamphlets  and  sweetmeats  into  your  lap  —  that 
is  an  American  journey.  There  are  windows  in  the 
wagons  —  enormous,  like  everything  else;  but  there 
is  nothing  to  see.  The  country  is  a  void  —  no  feat- 
ures, no  objects,  no  details,  nothing  to  show  you  that 
you  are  in  one  place  more  than  another.  Aussi,  you 
are  not  in  one  place ;  you  are  everywhere,  anywhere  ; 
the  train  goes  a  hundred  miles  an  hour.  The  cities 
are  all  the  same ;  little  houses  ten  feet  high,  or  else 
big  ones  two  hundred;  tramways,  telegraph-poles, 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  277 

enormous  signs,  holes  in  the  pavement,  oceans  of 
mud,  commis-voyageurs,  young  ladies  looking  for  the 
husband.  On  the  other  hand,  no  beggars  and  no 
cocottes  —  none,  at  least,  that  you  see.  A  colossal 
mediocrity,  except  (my  brother-in-law  tells  me)  in 
the  machinery,  which  is  magnificent.  Naturally,  no 
architecture  (they  make  houses  of  wood  and  of  iron), 
no  art,  no  literature,  no  theatre.  I  have  opened  some 
of  the  books  ;  mais  Us  ne  se  laissent  pas  lire.  No 
form,  no  matter,  no  style,  no  general  ideas;  they 
seem  to  be  written  for  children  and  young  ladies. 
The  most  successful  (those  that  they  praise  most)  are 
the  facetious ;  they  sell  in  thousands  of  editions.  I 
have  looked  into  some  of  the  most  vantes;  but  you 
need  to  be  forewarned,  to  know  that  they  are  amus- 
ing; des  plaisanteries  de  croquemort.  They  have  a 
novelist  with  pretensions  to  literature,  who  writes 
about  the  chase  for  the  husband  and  the  adventures 
of  the  rich  Americans  in  our  corrupt  old  Europe, 
where  their  primeval  candor  puts  the  Europeans  to 
shame.  C'est  proprement  tcrit ;  but  it 's  terribly  pate. 
What  is  n't  pale  is  the  newspapers  —  enormous,  like 
everything  else  (fifty  columns  of  advertisements),  and 
full  of  the  comm&ages  of  a  continent.  And  such  a 
tone,  grand  Dieu  !  The  amenities,  the  personalities, 
the  recriminations,  are  like  so  many  coups  de  revolver. 
Headings  six  inches  tall;  correspondences  from  places 
one  never  heard  of;  telegrams  from  Europe  about 
Sarah  Bernhardt ;  little  paragraphs  about  nothing  at 
all;  the  menu  of  the  neighbor's  dinner;  articles  on 


278  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

the  European  situation  d  pouffer  de  rire ;  all  the 
tripotage  of  local  politics.  The  reportage  is  incredi- 
ble ;  I  am  chased  up  and  down  by  the  interviewers. 
The  matrimonial  infelicities  of  M.  and  Madame  X. 
(they  give  the  name),  tout  au  long,  with  every  detail 
—  not  in  six  lines,  discreetly  veiled,  with  an  art  of 
insinuation,  as  with  us ;  but  with  all  the  facts  (or  the 
fictions),  the  letters,  the  dates,  the  places,  the  hours. 
I  open  a  paper  at  hazard,  and  I  find  au  beau  milieu, 
d  propos  of  nothing,  the  announcement  —  "  Miss 
Susan  Green  has  the  longest  nose  in  Western  New 
York."  Miss  Susan  Green  (je  me  renseigne)  is  a 
celebrated  authoress ;  and  the  Americans  have  the 
reputation  of  spoiling  their  women.  They  spoil  them 
d  coups  de  poing.  We  have  seen  few  interiors  (no  one 
speaks  French) ;  but  if  the  newspapers  give  an  idea 
of  the  domestic  mceurs,  the  mosurs  must  be  curious. 
The  passport  is  abolished,  but  they  have  printed  my 
signalement  in  these  sheets,  —  perhaps  for  the  young 
ladies  who  look  for  the  husband.  We  went  one  night 
to  the  theatre ;  the  piece  was  French  (they  are  the 
only  ones),  but  the  acting  was  American  —  too 
American;  we  came  out  in  the  middle.  The  want 
of  taste  is  incredible.  An  Englishman  whom  I  met 
tells  me  that  even  the  language  corrupts  itself  from 
day  to  day;  an  Englishman  ceases  to  understand. 
It  encourages  me  to  find  that  I  am  not  the  only  one. 
There  are  things  every  day  that  one  can't  describe. 
Such  is  Washington,  where  we  arrived  this  morning, 
coming  from  Philadelphia.  My  brother-in-law  wishes 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  279 

to  see  the  Bureau  of  Patents,  and  on  our  arrival  he 
went  to  look  at  his  machines,  while  I  walked  about 
the  streets  and  visited  the  Capitol!  The  tuman 
machine  is  what  interests  me  most.  I  don't  even 
care  for  the  political  —  for  that 's  what  they  call  their 
government  here  —  "  the  machine."  It  operates  very 
roughly,  and  some  day,  evidently,  it  will  explode. 
It  is  true  that  you  would  never  suspect  that  they 
have  a  government;  this  is  the  principal  seat,  but, 
save  for  three  or  four  big  buildings,  most  of  them 
affreux,  it  looks  like  a  settlement  of  negroes.  No 
movement,  no  officials,  no  authority,  no  embodiment 
of  the  State.  Enormous  streets,  comme  tonjours,  lined 
with  little  red  houses  where  nothing  ever  passes  but 
the  tramway.  The  Capitol  —  a  vast  structure,  false 
classic,  white  marble,  iron  and  stucco,  which  has 
assez  grand  air  —  must  be  seen  to  be  appreciated. 
The  goddess  of  liberty  on  the  top,  dressed  in  a  bear's 
skin;  their  liberty  over  here  is  the  liberty  of  bears. 
You  go  into  the  Capitol  as  you  would  into  a  railway 
station ;  you  walk  about  as  you  would  in  the  Palais 
Eoyal.  No  functionaries,  no  door-keepers,  no  officers, 
no  uniforms,  no  badges,  no  restrictions,  no  authority 
—  nothing  but  a  crowd  of  shabby  people  circulating 
in  a  labyrinth  of  spittoons.  We  are  too  much  gov- 
erned perhaps  in  France ;  but  at  least  we  have  a 
certain  incarnation  of  the  national  conscience,  of  the 
national  dignity.  The  dignity  is  absent  here,  and  I 
am  told  that  the  conscience  is  an  abyss.  "  L&at  c'est 
moi "  even  —  I  like  that  better  than  the  spittoons. 


280  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

These  implements  are  architectural,  monumental ; 
they  are  the  only  monuments.  En  somme,  the  country 
is  interesting,  now  that  we  too  have  the  Eepublic ;  it 
is  the  biggest  illustration,  the  biggest  warning.  It  is 
the  last  word  of  democracy,  and  that  word  is  —  flat- 
ness. It  is  very  big,  very  rich,  and  perfectly  ugly. 
A  Frenchman  could  n't  live  here ;  for  life  with  us, 
after  all,  at  the  worst  is  a  sort  of  appreciation.  Here, 
there  is  nothing  to  appreciate.  As  for  the  people, 
they  are  the  English  mimes  the  conventions.  You 
can  fancy  what  remains.  The  women,  pourtant,  are 
sometimes  rather  well  turned.  There  was  one  at 
Philadelphia  —  I  made  her  acquaintance  by  accident 
—  whom  it  is  probable  I  shall  see  again.  She  is  not 
looking  for  the  husband;  she  has  already  got  one. 
It  was  at  the  hotel ;  I  think  the  husband  does  n't 
matter.  A  Frenchman,  as  I  have  said,  may  mistake, 
and  he  needs  to  be  sure  he  is  right.  Aussi,  I  always 
make  sure ! 


VII. 


FROM   MARCELLUS   COCKEREL,  IN  WASHINGTON,  TO   MRS. 
COOLER,  NE'E   COCKEREL,  AT   OAKLAND,   CALIFORNIA. 

October  25. 

I  OUGHT  to  have  written  to  you  long  before  this, 
for  I  have  had  your  last  excellent  letter  for  four 
months  in  my  hands.  The  first  half  of  that  time  I 
was  still  in  Europe;  the  last  I  have  spent  on  my 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  281 

native  soil.  I  think,  therefore,  my  silence  is  owing 
to  the  fact  that  over  there  I  was  too  miserable  to 
write,  and  that  here  I  have  been  too  happy.  I  got 
back  the  1st  of  September  —  you  will  have  seen  it 
in  the  papers.  Delightful  country,  where  one  sees 
everything  in  the  papers  —  the  big,  familiar,  vulgar, 
good-natured,  delightful  papers,  none  of  which  has 
any  reputation  to  keep  up  for  anything  but  getting 
the  news !  I  really  think  that  has  had  as  much  to  do 
as  anything  else  with  my  satisfaction  at  getting  home 
—  the  difference  in  what  they  call  the  "  tone  of  the 
press."  In  Europe  it 's  too  dreary  —  the  sapience, 
the  solemnity,  the  false  respectability,  the  verbosity, 
the  long  disquisitions  on  superannuated  subjects. 
Here  the  newspapers  are  like  the  railroad  trains, 
which  carry  everything  that  comes  to  the  station, 
and  have  only  the  religion  of  punctuality.  As  a 
woman,  however,  you  probably  detest  them;  you 
think  they  are  (the  great  word)  vulgar.  I  admitted 
it  just  now,  and  I  am  very  happy  to  have  an  early 
opportunity  to  announce  to  you  that  that  idea  has 
quite  ceased  to  have  any  terrors  for  me.  There  are 
some  conceptions  to  which  the  female  mind  can  never 
rise.  Vulgarity  is  a  stupid,  superficial,  question- 
begging  accusation,  which  has  become  to-day  the 
easiest  refuge  of  mediocrity.  Better  than  anything 
else,  it  saves  people  the  trouble  of  thinking,  and  any- 
thing which  does  that  succeeds.  You  must  know 
that  in  these  last  three  years  in  Europe  I  have  become 
terribly  vulgar  myself ;  that 's  one  service  my  travels 


282  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

have  rendered  me.  By  three  years  in  Europe  I  mean 
three  years  in  foreign  parts  altogether,  for  I  spent 
several  months  of  that  time  in  Japan,  India,  and  the 
rest  of  the  East.  Do  you  remember  when  you  bade 
me  good -by  in  San  Francisco,  the  night  before  I 
embarked  for  Yokohama  ?  You  foretold  that  I  should 
take  such  a  fancy  to  foreign  life  that  America  would 
never  see  me  more,  and  that  if  you  should  wish  to  see 
me  (an  event  you  were  good  enough  to  regard  as  pos- 
sible), you  would  have  to  make  a  rendezvous  in  Paris 
or  in  Eome.  I  think  we  made  one  (which  you  never 
kept),  but  I  shall  never  make  another  for  those  cities. 
It  was  in  Paris,  however,  that  I  got  your  letter ;  I 
remember  the  moment  as  well  as  if  it  were  (to  my 
honor)  much  more  recent.  You  must  know  that, 
among  many  places  I  dislike,  Paris  carries  the  palm. 
I  ain  bored  to  death  there ;  it 's  the  home  of  every 
humbug.  The  life  is  full  of  that  false  comfort  which 
is  worse  than  discomfort,  and  the  small,  fat,  irritable 
people  give  me  the  shivers.  I  had  been  making  these 
reflections  even  more  devoutly  than  usual  one  very 
tiresome  evening  toward  the  beginning  of  last  summer, 
when,  as  I  re-entered  my  hotel  at  ten  o'clock,  the  little 
reptile  of  a  portress  handed  me  your  gracious  lines. 
I  was  in  a  villanous  humor.  I  had  been  having  an 
over-dressed  dinner  in  a  stuffy  restaurant,  and  had 
gone  from  there  to  a  suffocating  theatre,  where,  by 
way  of  amusement,  I  saw  a  play  in  which  blood  and 
lies  were  the  least  of  the  horrors.  The  theatres  over 
there  are  insupportable ;  the  atmosphere  is  pestilen- 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  283 

tial.  People  sit  with  their  elbows  in  your  sides; 
they  squeeze  past  you  every  half-hour.  It  was  one 
of  my  bad  moments ;  I  have  a  great  many  in  Europe. 
The  conventional,  perfunctory  play,  all  in  falsetto, 
which  I  seemed  to  have  seen  a  thousand  times  ;  the 
horrible  faces  of  the  people;  the  pushing,  bullying 
ouvreuse,  with  her  false  politeness  and  her  real 
rapacity,  drove  me  out  of  the  place  at  the  end  of 
an  hour ;  and,  as  it  was  too  early  to  go  home,  I  sat 
down  before  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard,  where  they 
served  me  a  glass  of  sour,  watery  beer.  There  on  the 
Boulevard,  in  the  summer  night,  life  itself  was  even 
uglier  than  the  play,  and  it  wouldn't  do  for  me  to 
tell  you  what  I  saw.  Besides,  I  was  sick  of  the 
Boulevard,  with  its  eternal  grimace  and  the  deadly 
sameness  of  the  article  de  Paris,  which  pretends  to 
be  so  various  —  the  shop- windows  a  wilderness  of 
rubbish  and  the  passers-by  a  procession  of  manikins. 
Suddenly  it  came  over  me  that  I  was  supposed  to  be 
amusing  myself  —  my  face  was  a  yard  long  —  and 
that  you  probably  at  that  moment  were  saying  to 
your  husband :  "  He  stays  away  so  long !  What  a 
good  time  he  must  be  having ! "  The  idea  was  the 
first  thing  that  had  made  me  smile  for  a  month ;  I 
got  up  and  walked  home,  reflecting,  as  I  went,  that 
I  was  "seeing  Europe,"  and  that,  after  all,  one  must 
see  Europe.  It  was  because  I  had  been  convinced  of 
this  that  I  came  out,  and  it  is  because  the  operation 
has  been  brought  to  a  close  that  I  have  been  so 
happy  for  the  last  eight  weeks.  I  was  very  consci- 


284  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

entious  about  it,  and,  though  your  letter  that  night 
made  me  abominably  homesick,  I  held  out  to  the 
end,  knowing  it  to  be  once  for  all.  I  sha'n't  trouble 
Europe  again ;  I  shall  see  America  for  the  rest  of  my 
days.  My  long  delay  has  had  the  advantage  that 
now,  at  least,  1  can  give  you  my  impressions — I 
don't  mean  of  Europe;  impressions  of  Europe  are 
easy  to  get  —  but  of  this  country,  as  it  strikes  the 
re-instated  exile.  Very  likely  you'll  think  them 
queer ;  but  keep  my  letter,  and  twenty  years  hence 
they  will  be  quite  commonplace.  They  won't  even 
be  vulgar.  It  was  very  deliberate,  my  going  round 
the  world.  I  knew  that  one  ought  to  see  for  one's 
self,  and  that  I  should  have  eternity,  so  to  speak,  to 
rest.  I  travelled  energetically  ;  I  went  everywhere 
and  saw  everything;  took  as  many  letters  as  possible, 
and  made  as  many  acquaintances.  In  short,  I  held 
my  nose  to  the  grindstone.  The  upshot  of  it  all  is 
that  I  have  got  rid  of  a  superstition.  We  have  so 
many,  that  one  the  less  —  perhaps  the  biggest  of  all 
—  makes  a  real  difference  in  one's  comfort.  The 
superstition  in  question  —  of  course  you  have  it  —  is 
that  there  is  no  salvation  but  through  Europe.  Our 
salvation  is  here,  if  we  have  eyes  to  see  it,  and  the 
salvation  of  Europe  into  the  bargain;  that  is,  if 
Europe  is  to  be  saved,  which  I  rather  doubt.  Of 
course,  you  '11  call  me  a  bird  o'  freedom,  a  braggart, 
a  waver  of  the  stars  and  stripes ;  but  I  'm  in  the 
delightful  position  of  not  minding  in  the  least  what 
any  one  calls  me.  I  have  n't  a  mission ;  I  don't  want 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  285 

to  preach  ;  I  have  simply  arrived  at  a  state  of  mind  ; 
I  have  got  Europe  off  my  back.     You  have  no  idea 
how  it  simplifies  things,  and  how  jolly  it  makes  me 
feel.    Now  I  can  live ;  now  I  can  talk.    If  we  wretched 
Americans  could  only  say  once  for  all,  "  Oh,  Europe 
be  hanged ! "  we  should  attend  much  better  to  our 
proper  business.    We  have  simply  to  live  our  life,  and 
the  rest  will  look  after  itself.     You  will  probably  in- 
quire what  it  is  that  I  like  better  over  here,  and  I  will 
answer  that  it 's  simply  — life.    Disagreeables  for  dis- 
agreeables, I  prefer  our  own.     The  way  I  have  been 
bored  and  bullied  in  foreign  parts,  and  the  way  I  have 
had  to  say  I  found  it  pleasant !    For  a  good  while  this 
appeared  to  be  a  sort  of  congenital  obligation,  but  one 
fine  day  it  occurred  to  me  that  there  was  no  obliga- 
tion at  all,  and  that  it  would  ease  me  immensely  to 
admit  to  myself  that  (for  me,  at  least)  all  those  things 
had  no  importance.     I  mean  the  things  they  nib  into 
you  in  Europe ;  the  tiresome  international  topics,  the 
petty  politics,  the  stupid  social  customs,  the  baby- 
house  scenery.     The  vastness  and  freshness  of  this 
American  world",  the  great  scale  and  great   pace  of 
our  development,  the  good  sense  and  good  nature  of 
the  people,  console  me  for  there  being  no  cathedrals 
and  no  Titians.     I  hear  nothing  about  Prince  Bis- 
marck and  Gambetta,  about  the  Emperor  William 
and  the  Czar  of  Eussia,  about  Lord  Beaconsfield  and 
the  Prince  of  Wales.     I  used  to  get  so  tired  of  their 
Mumbo-Jumbo  of  a  Bismarck,  of  his  secrets  and  sur- 
prises, his  mysterious  intentions  and  oracular  words. 


286  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

They  revile  us  for  our  party  politics ;  but  what  are 
all  the  European  jealousies  and  rivalries,  their  arma- 
ments and  their  wars,  their  rapacities  and  their  mutual 
lies,  but  the  intensity  of  the  spirit  of  party  ?  what 
question,  what  interest,  what  idea,  what  need  of  man- 
kind, is  involved  in  any  of  these  things  ?  Their  big, 
pompous  armies,  drawn  up  in  great  silly  rows,  their 
gold  .lace,  their  salaams,  their  hierarchies,  seem  a 
pastime  for  children ;  there  's  a  sense  of  humor  and 
of  reality  over  here  that  laughs  at  all  that.  Yes,  we 
are  nearer  the  reality  —  we  are  nearer  what  they  will 
all  have  to  come  to.  The  questions  of  the  future  are 
social  questions,  which  the  Bismarcks  and  Beacons- 
fields  are  very  much  afraid  to  see  settled ;  and  the 
sight  of  a  row  of  supercilious  potentates  holding  their 
peoples  like  their  personal  property,  and'  bristling  all 
over,  to  make  a  mutual  impression,  with  feathers  and 
sabres,  strikes  us  as  a  mixture  of  the  grotesque  and 
the  abominable.  What  do  we  care  for  the  mutual 
impressions  of  potentates  who  amuse  themselves 
with  sitting  on  people  ?  Those  things  are  their  own 
affair,  and  they  ought  to  be  shut  up  in  a  dark  room 
to  have  it  out  together.  Once  one  feels,  over  here, 
that  the  great  questions  of  the  future  are  social  ques- 
tions, that  a  mighty  tide  is  sweeping  the  world  to 
democracy,  and  that  this  country  is  the  biggest  stage 
on  which  the  drama  can  be  enacted,  the  fashionable 
European  topics  seem  petty  and  parochial.  They 
talk  about  things  that  we  have  settled  ages  ago,  and 
the  solemnity  with  which  they  propound  to  you  their 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  287 

little  domestic  embarrassments  makes  a  heavy  draft 
on  one's  good  nature.  In  England  they  were  talking 
about  the  Hares  and  Rabbits  Bill,  about  the  exten- 
sion of  the  County  Franchise,  about  the  Dissenters' 
Burials,  about  the  Deceased  Wife's  Sister,  about  the 
abolition  of  the  House  of  Lords,  about  heaven  knows 
what  ridiculous  little  measure  for  the  propping-up 
of  their  ridiculous  little  country.  And  they  call  us 
provincial !  It  is  hard  to  sit  and  look  respectable 
while  people  discuss  the  utility  of  the  House  of  Lords 
and  the  beauty  of  a  State  Church,  and  it 's  only  in  a 
dowdy,  musty  civilization  that  you  '11  find  them  doing 
such  things.  The  lightness  and  clearness  of  the 
social  air,  that 's  the  great  relief  in  these  parts. 
The  gentility  of  bishops,  the  propriety  of  parsons, 
even  the  impressiveness  of  a  restored  cathedral,  give 
less  of  a  charm  to  life  than  that.  I  used  to  be  furi- 
ous with  the  bishops  and  parsons,  with  the  hum- 
buggery  of  the  whole  affair,  which  every  one  was 
conscious  of,  but  which  people  agreed  not  to  expose, 
because  they  would  be  compromised  all  round.  The 
convenience  of  life  over  here,  the  quick  and  simple 
arrangements,  the  absence  of  the  spirit  of  routine,  are 
a  blessed  change  from  the  stupid  stiffness  with  which 
I  struggled  for  two  long  years.  There  were  people 
with  swords  and  cockades  who  used  to  order  me 
about;  for  the  simplest  operation  of  life  I  had  to 
kootoo  to  some  bloated  official.  When  it  was  a  ques- 
tion of  my  doing  a  little  differently  from  others,  the 
bloated  official  gasped  as  if  I  had  given  him  a  blow 


288  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

on  the  stomach ;  he  needed  to  take  a  week  to  think 
of  it.  On  the  other  hand,  it 's  impossible  to  take  an 
American  by  surprise  ;  he  is  ashamed  to  confess  that 
he  has  not  the  wit  to  do  a  thing  that  another  man 
has  had  the  wit  to  think  of.  Besides  being  as  good 
as  his  neighbor,  he  must  therefore  be  as  clever, — 
which  is  an  affliction  only  to  people  who  are  afraid 
he  may  be  cleverer.  If  this  general  efficiency  and 
spontaneity  of  the  people  —  the  union  of  the  sense 
of  freedom  with  the  love  of  knowledge  —  isn't  the 
very  essence  of  a  high  civilization,  I  don't  know  what 
a  high  civilization  is.  I  felt  this  greater  ease  on  my 
first  railroad  journey,  — felt  the  blessing  of  sitting  in 
a  train  where  I  could  move  about,  where  I  could 
stretch  my  legs  and  come  and  go,  where  I  had  a  seat 
and  a  window  to  myself,  where  there  were  chairs  and 
tables  and  food  and  drink.  The  villanous  little 
boxes  on  the  European  trains,  in  which  you  are 
stuck  down  in  a  corner,  with  doubled-up  knees,  oppo- 
site to  a  row  of  people  —  often  most  offensive  types 
—  who  stare  at  you  for  ten  hours  on  end  —  these 
were  part  of  my  two  years'  ordeal.  The  large,  free 
way  of  doing  things  here  is  everywhere  a  pleasure. 
In  London,  at  my  hotel,  they  used  to  come  to  me  on 
Saturday  to  make  me  order  my  Sunday's  dinner,  and 
when  I  asked  for  a  sheet  of  paper,  they  put  it  into 
the  bill  The  meagreness,  the  stinginess,  the  per- 
petual expectation  of  a  sixpence,  used  to  exasperate 
me.  Of  course,  I  saw  a  great  many  people  who  were 
pleasant ;  but  as  I  am  writing  to  you,  and  not  to  one 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  289 

of  them,  I  may  say  that  they  were  dreadfully  apt  to 
be  dull.  The  imagination  among  the  people  I  see 
here  is  more  flexible  ;  and  then  they  have  the  advan- 
tage of  a  larger  horizon.  It's  not  bounded  on  the 
north  by  the  British  aristocracy,  and  on  the  south  by 
the  scrutin  de  liste.  (I  mix  up  the  countries  a  little, 
but  they  are  not  worth  the  keeping  apart.)  The 
absence  of  little  conventional  measurements,  of  little 
cut-and-dried  judgments,  is  an  immense  refreshment. 
We  are  more  analytic,  more  discriminating,  more 
familiar  with  realities.  As  for  manners,  there  are 
bad  manners  everywhere,  but  an  aristocracy  is  bad 
manners  organized.  (I  don't  mean  that  they  may 
not  be  polite  among  themselves,  but  they  are  rude  to 
every  one  else.)  The  sight  of  all  these  growing 
millions  simply  minding  their  business,  is  impres- 
sive to  me,  —  more  so  than  all  the  gilt  buttons  and 
padded  chests  of  the  Old  World  ;  and  there  is  a  cer- 
tain powerful  type  of  "practical"  American  (you'll 
find  him  chiefly  in  the  West),  who  does  n't  brag  as  I 
do  (I  'm  not  practical),  but  who  quietly  feels  that  he 
has  the  Future  in  his  vitals, — a  type  that  strikes  me 
more  than  any  I  met  in  your  favorite  countries.  Of 
course  you  '11  come  back  to  the  cathedrals  and  Titiaus, 
but  there 's  a  thought  that  helps  one  to  do  without 
them,  —  the  thought  that  though  there  's  an  immense 
deal  of  plainness,  there 's  little  misery,  little  squalor, 
little  degradation.  There  is  no  regular  wife-beating 
class,  and  there  are  none  of  the  stultified  peasants  of 
whom  it  takes  so  many  to  make  a  European  noble. 

13 


290  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

The  people  here  are  more  conscious  of  things ;  they 
invent,  they  act,  they  answer  for  themselves ;  they  are 
not  (I  speak  of  social  matters)  tied  up  by  authority 
and  precedent.  We  shall  have  all  the  Titians  by 
and  by,  and  we  shall  move  over  a  few  cathedrals. 
You  had  better  stay  here  if  you  want  to  have  the 
best.  Of  course,  I  am  a  roaring  Yankee ;  but  you  '11 
call  me  that  if  I  say  the  least,  so  I  may  as  well  take 
my  ease  and  say  the  most.  Washington's  a  most 
entertaining  place ;  and  here  at  least,  at  the  seat  of 
government,  one  is  n't  overgoverned.  In  fact,  there 's 
no  government  at  all  to  speak  of;  it  seems  too  good 
to  be  true.  The  first  day  I  was  here  I  went  to  the 
Capitol,  and  it  took  me  ever  so  long  to  figure  to 
myself  that  I  had  as  good  a  right  there  as  any  one 
else, —  that  the  whole  magnificent  pile  (it  is  magnifi- 
cent by  the  way)  was  in  fact  my  own.  In  Europe 
one  does  n't  rise  to  such  conceptions,  and  my  spirit 
had  been  broken  in  Europe.  The  doors  were  gaping 
wide  —  I  walked  all  about ;  there  were  no  door-keep- 
ers, no  officers,  nor  flunkeys,  —  not  even  a  policeman 
to  .be  seen.  It  seemed  strange  not  to  see  a  uniform, 
if  only  as  a  patch  of  color.  But  this  is  n't  government 
by  livery.  The  absence  of  these  things  is  odd  at 
first ;  you  seem  to  miss  something,  to  fancy  the 
machine  has  stopped.  It  has  n't,  though  ;  it  only 
works  without  fire  and  smoke.  At  the  end  of  three 
days,  this  simple  negative  impression  —  the  fact  is 
that  there  are  no  soldiers  nor  spies,  nothing  but 
plain  black  coats  —  begins  to  affect  the  imagination, 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  291 

becomes  vivid,  majestic,  symbolic.  It  ends  by  being 
more  impressive  than  the  biggest  review  I  saw  in 
Germany.  Of  course,  I  'm  a  roaring  Yankee ;  but 
one  has  to  take  a  big  brush  to  copy  a  big  model. 
The  future  is  here,  of  course  ;  but  it  is  n't  only  that 
—  the  present  is  here  as  well.  You  will  complain 
that  I  don't  give  you  any  personal  news ;  but  I  am. 
more  modest  for  myself  than  for  my  country.  I 
spent  a  mouth  in  New  York,  and  while  I  was  there 
I  saw  a  good  deal  of  a  rather  interesting  girl  who 
came  over  with  me  in  the  steamer,  and  whom  for  a 
day  or  two  I  thought  I  should  like  to  marry.  But  I 
should  n't.  She  has  been  spoiled  by  Europe  ! 


VIII. 

FROM   MISS   AURORA    CHURCH,  IN  NEW  YORK,   TO   MISS 
WHITESIDE,  IN  PARIS. 

January  9. 

I  TOLD  you  (after  we  landed)  about  my  agreement 
with  mamma  —  that  I  was  to  have  my  liberty  for  three 
months,  and  if  at  the  end  of  this  time  I  should  n't 
have  made  a  good  use  of  it,  I  was  to  give  it  back  to 
her.  Well,  the  time  is  up  to-day,  and  I  am  very 
much  afraid  I  haven't  made  a  good  use  of  it.  In 
fact,  I  have  n't  made  any  use  of  it  at  all  —  I  have  n't 
got  married,  for  that  is  what  mamma  meant  by  our 
little  bargain.  She  has  been  trying  to  marry  me  in 
Europe,  for  years,  without  a  dot,  and  as  she  has  never 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

(to  the  best  of  my  knowledge)  even  come  near  it,  she 
thought  at  last  that,  if  she  were  to  leave  it  to  me, 
I  might  do  better.  I  couldn't  certainly  do  worse. 
Well,  my  dear,  I  have  done  very  badly  —  that  is,  I 
have  n't  done  at  all.  I  have  n't  even  tried.  I  had  an 
idea  that  this  affair  came  of  itself  over  here ;  but  it 
has  n't  come  to  me.  I  won't  say  I  am  disappointed, 
for  I  have  n't,  on  the  whole,  seen  any  one  I  should  like 
to  marry.  When  you  marry  people  over  here,  they 
expect  you  to  love  them,  and  I  have  n't  seen  any  one 
I  should  like  to  love.  I  don't  know  what  the  reason 
is,  but  they  are  none  of  them  what  I  have  thought 
of.  It  may  be  that  I  have  thought  of  the  impossible ; 
and  yet  I  have  seen  people  in  Europe  whom  I  should 
have  liked  to  marry.  It  is  true,  they  were  almost 
always  married  to  some  one  else.  What  I  am  disap- 
pointed in  is  simply  having  to  give  back  my  liberty. 
I  don't  wish  particularly  to  be  married ;  and  I  do  wish 
to  do  as  I  like  —  as  I  have  been  doing  for  the  last 
month.  All  the  same,  I  am  sorry  for  poor  mamma, 
as  nothing  has  happened  that  she  wished  to  happen. 
To  begin  with,  we  are  not  appreciated,  not  even  by 
the  Bucks,  who  have  disappeared,  in  the  strange  way 
in  which  people  over  here  seem  to  vanish  from  the 
world.  We  have  made  no  sensation  ;  my  new  dresses 
count  for  nothing  (they  all  have  better  ones) ;  our 
philological  and  historical  studies  don't  show.  We 
have  been  told  we  might  do  better  in  Boston ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  mamma  hears  that  in  Boston  the 
people  only  marry  their  cousins.  Then  mamma  is 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW.  293 

out  of  sorts  because  the  country  is  exceedingly  dear 
and  we  have  spent  all  our  money.  Moreover,  I  have 
neither  eloped,  nor  been  insulted,  nor  been  talked 
about,  nor  —  so  far  as  I  know  —  deteriorated  in 
manners  or  character;  so  that  mamma  is  wrong  in  all 
her  previsions.  I  think  she  would  have  rather  liked 
me  to  be  insulted.  But  I  have  been  insulted  as  little 
as  I  have  been  adored.  They  don't  adore  you  over 
here ;  they  only  make  you  think  they  are  going  to. 
Do  you  remember  the  two  gentlemen  who  were  on 
the  ship,  and  who,  after  we  arrived  here,  came  to  see 
me  d  tour  de  rdle?  At  first  I  never  dreamed  they 
were  making  love  to  me,  though  mamma  was  sure  it 
must  be  that;  then,  as  it  went  on  a  good  while,  I 
thought  perhaps  it  was  that ;  and  I  ended  by  seeing 
that  it  wasn't  anything !  It  was  simply  conversa- 
tion; they  are  very  fond  of  conversation  over  here. 
Mr.  Leverett  and  Mr.  Cockerel  disappeared  one  fine 
day,  without  the  smallest  pretension  to  having  broken 
my  heart,  I  am  sure,  though  it  only  depended  on  me 
to  think  they  had  !  All  the  gentlemen  are  like  that ; 
you  can't  tell  what  they  mean;  everything  is  very 
confused ;  society  appears  to  consist  of  a  sort  of 
innocent  jilting.  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I  am  a  little 
disappointed — I  don't  mean  about  one's  not  marry- 
ing; I  mean  about  the  life  generally.  It  seems  so 
different  at  first,  that  you  expect  it  will  be  very  excit- 
ing ;  and  then  you  find  that,  after  all,  when  you  have 
walked  out  for  a  week  or  two  by  yourself  and  driven 
out  with  a  gentleman  in  a  buggy,  that's  about  all 


294  THE  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

there  is  of  it,  as  they  say  here.  Mamma  is  very  angry 
at  not  finding  more  to  dislike  ;  she  admitted  yesterday 
that,  once  one  has  got  a  little  settled,  the  country 
has  not  even  the  merit  of  being  hateful.  This  has 
evidently  something  to  do  with  her  suddenly  propos- 
ing three  days  ago  that  we  should  go  to  the  West. 
Imagine  my  surprise  at  such  an  idea  coming  from 
mamma  !  The  people  in  the  pension —  who,  as  usual, 
wish  immensely  to  get  rid  of  her — have  talked  to 
her  about  the  West,  and  she  has  taken  it  up  with  a 
kind  of  desperation.  You  see,  we  must  do  something ; 
we  can't  simply  remain  here.  We  are  rapidly  being 
ruined,  and  we  are  not — so  to  speak — getting 
married.  Perhaps  it  will  be  easier  in  the  West;  at 
any  rate,  it  will  be  cheaper,  and  the  country  will  have 
the  advantage  of  being  more  hateful.  It  is  a  question 
between  that  and  returning  to  Europe,  and  for  the 
moment  mamma  is  balancing.  I  say  nothing :  I  am 
really  indifferent ;  perhaps  I  shall  marry  a  pioneer. 
I  am  just  thinking  how  I  shall  give  back  my  liberty. 
It  really  won't  be  possible;  I  haven't  got  it  any 
more;  I  have  given  it  away  to  others.  Mamma 
may  recover  it,  if  she  can,  from  them  !  She  comes  in 
at  this  moment  to  say  that  we  must  push  farther — 
she  has  decided  for  the  West.  Wonderful  mamma ! 
It  appears  that  my  real  chance  is  for  a  pioneer  — 
they  have  sometimes  millions.  But,  fancy  us  in 
the  West! 

THE   END. 


M554909 


